


Give Me Love (Like Her)

by PhiraLovesLoki



Series: Love Letters Series [2]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Companion Piece, Drama, F/M, Love Letters, Secret Admirer, Slow Burn, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-10
Updated: 2015-11-09
Packaged: 2018-04-25 19:26:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 55,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4973236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PhiraLovesLoki/pseuds/PhiraLovesLoki
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How can Killian Jones ask his aggressively aloof neighbor on a date without making her uncomfortable? And how can he ensure that he doesn’t default to having a one-night stand with her? His unusual solution: announce his affections anonymously and hope for the best. Companion piece to With Affection from Killian’s point-of-view.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> This is the companion piece to With Affection! PLEASE READ WITH AFFECTION FIRST, and read it in its entirety, before you read this story. I know a lot of people have opted to read them out of order, or (worse) alternate chapters, but I can tell you as the author of the works that the best experience is to read With Affection first, and this one second.
> 
> This story is dedicated to lenfaz, optomisticgirl, and bashful-killian over on Tumblr. Lenfaz sparked the idea and wouldn't let it die; optomisticgirl was always there for me, helping me get through rough patches, and she beta-read the whole story for me; and bashful-killian was an incredible cheerleader and made an amazing banner for me to use on Tumblr. Thank you!!

It began on a Friday.

Well, not exactly. Technically, it had begun over a year ago, as Killian had been wandering between the moving truck and his new flat, supervising the movers. He’d ducked back out of the flat to head down to the truck again, when he’d nearly knocked _her_ over as she’d been walking down the hall. She’d simply glanced at him, said, “Sorry, excuse me,” neutrally, and then disappeared into her own flat. Little did he know that would be the most significant interaction they’d share for over a year.

He had been able to discern very little about her, which was unusual, given how easy it had been for him to get to know plenty of his other neighbors. He was on a first-name basis with several other tenants, from the teenaged Peter from the fifth floor, to the taciturn Leroy and his brothers. He occasionally grabbed drinks with Will, the heartbroken pawnshop employee, and Robin, whose wife was a visiting professor out in California. He and Mulan would spot each other in the fitness center if they happened to be downstairs at the same time, and he’d even asked old Marco for help installing a few shelves.

All he had of this mysterious neighbor was her surname: Swan. He’d gleaned the information from her mailbox, which was close enough to his that he could convince himself that he’d merely _glanced_ over, unconsciously, and taken in the name.

Swan. But no first name. No first initial.

She always dressed professionally Mondays through Fridays, but not in any fashion that could indicate a particular career. She worked out several times a week, but he’d given up trying to coordinate his own workout times to impress her with his physical fitness; he just couldn’t seem to figure out her schedule.

She clearly had a large group of friends; he spotted her with the same people over and over, in the lift, in the hallway, or walking in and out of the lobby. He was at a loss as to whether or not any of those several people might be a significant other, though lately, he’d seen her with an overnight bag. But it was only occasionally, and he never saw any of her visitors carrying one.

Though it didn’t seem to matter if she was in a relationship or not: he found himself incapable of even introducing himself. It wasn’t fear that stopped him, but her almost aggressive disinterest: she very clearly did not want to get to know anyone in the building. No one else seemed to know anything about her either, including her first name, and he never saw her have a conversation with anyone besides her friends.

Besides, what good would it do, exactly? It’s not as though he were the sort of person who could offer her more than a single night of passion. It would be bad form to ignore the signals she was sending simply to sate his own desires for one evening. Perhaps he was putting her on a pedestal, but then again, no woman looking for a relationship deserved what little he could give.

And so he admired her from afar, and sought pleasure elsewhere. Until that fateful weekend, starting on Friday.

On Friday, Jefferson came over after work to relax and have a drink. The man had barely entered the apartment before the words were out of his mouth: _“Who_ is _that?”_

“Who is who?” Killian asked, accepting the beer that Jefferson carried with him.

“Your neighbor.”

“How descriptive.”

“Drop dead gorgeous—does that make it easier? That’s not Aurora, is it? Because that _would_ explain her popularity in the building.”

Jefferson was referring to a curious drama that had played out several months ago, when Mulan had moved to the building. Phillip, who lived down the hall with his girlfriend, had become quite attracted to the veteran, and he’d spent more than one night at the local pub with Killian, waxing poetically about how he burned so brightly for two different women. It hadn’t mattered, though, as he wasn’t the only occupant of his flat who’d fallen for Mulan. Aurora still lived in the building, but in apartment 209 instead of 201. The most shocking part of the situation, at least in Killian’s mind, was that Phillip chose to remain in the building, facing his ex-girlfriend and her new girlfriend nearly every day. The story had been so absurd that Killian couldn’t help but share it with his friends.

“The only information you’ve given me is that you spotted a beautiful woman in my building,” Killian reminded him as he grabbed a bottle opener. “Where did you see her?”

“She got off the elevator with me, on your floor. Leggy blonde. Probably could model.”

His heart skipped a beat; of _course_ it would be her. “Oh, yeah. Her.”

“Which neighbor is she? Kathryn? The one with the weird ‘Z’ name I can never remember?”

Killian quickly poured the beers into a couple of pint glasses and opted to change the subject. “Would it kill you to get something drinkable?” he asked.

“You’re lucky we’re not at a bar right now. Insulting Sam Adams? You could get your British ass thrown in the harbor.”

“Point taken. Would you like to see if there’s anything good on television tonight?”

But all of the deliberate dodging was, itself, a serious tell. “ _Oh,”_ Jefferson said, his lips curling into a satisfied smile. “It’s _her_ , isn’t it? The mysterious woman who sends butterflies fluttering around your delicate stomach?”

“Jefferson.”

“I am absolutely embarrassed that I’m actually friends with someone who has spent a year forgoing the opportunity to _hit that.”_

“Have you gone temporarily deaf each time I’ve _also_ mentioned that she’s disinclined to have a single conversation with anyone else in this building? ‘Hitting that’ would require a conversation, and I don’t think she’s willing to have one.”

“You’re afraid she’ll say no,” Jefferson said, matter-of-factly, as Killian handed him one of the glasses of beer. He then promptly set it on the bare table; would it kill the man to use a coaster?

“No. I just don’t see a point in annoying her when she clearly doesn’t want to be approached. Besides, she probably has a significant other. She carries an overnight bag sometimes; that’s a tad unusual if you’re not seeing someone, don’t you think?”

Jefferson smirked. “You’re a coward.”

“Oi.” He bristled. “I’m not a coward.”

“You are. It’s simple: you’re afraid you’ll ask her out and she’ll say no.”

“I am not.” And he _wasn’t_ afraid of that.

“Then I dare you to ask her out,” Jefferson said with finality, before taking a sip of beer.

Killian opened his mouth to protest, but Jefferson had already turned on the television and was clearly finished with the discussion.

As his friend settled on the baseball playoff game that was on (Killian had lost interest for the season, now that the Sox had finished in last place), he considered the dare. He knew he wasn’t imagining her aggressive disinterest; other tenants had noticed as well. Phillip, in an attempt to move on from Aurora, had considered asking the woman out, but had later balked, claiming that she seemed too busy. And August, Marco’s son, had asked Killian on more than one occasion if he knew the blonde, and whether he could introduce him to her. At the very least, Killian knew not to take her attitude personally, if other tenants had difficulty approaching her, too.

He was _not_ pleased with Jefferson calling him a coward. But what else could he do? This woman was very clearly _never_ in the mood to be bothered, and the fact that no one else seemed to know anything about her spoke volumes. It didn’t matter that he’d caught her staring at him more than once in the fitness center: she was a woman who did not want to be approached, and he wasn’t keen to violate that boundary.

And violating that boundary on a dare? That would be disrespectful. Bad form.

Then again, he remembered what Liam used to say to him: _A man unwilling to fight for what he wants, deserves what he gets._

On Saturday evening, Killian had plans to stay in and get ahead in his case work, but those plans were derailed when he received a text from Graham:

_Come to Pour House. Date had to go home early._

“That’s rotten luck, mate,” he said when he arrived and hopped up on the barstool next to Graham. “She didn’t warm to your sparkling personality?”

“No need to be jealous, Killian,” Graham replied evenly before flagging over the bartender so Killian could order a drink. “She was actually quite ill—nasty cold. To be honest, I’m flattered she kept the date.”

Killian threw up his hands in mock surrender. “Very well; she’s interested in you, my charming friend, and I stand corrected. So how was the date, her plague notwithstanding?”

Graham smiled sheepishly. “Quite excellent. I wasn’t sure it would live up to my expectations, but it surpassed them.”

“Where did you meet, exactly?” His Captain and Coke arrived, and he took a sip, trying to remember if Graham had already told him. The Tillman case had been taking up so much of his attention, he could hardly remember very much else these days.

“Match,” Graham said, and Killian nearly spit out his drink.

“You met _online?”_ he asked incredulously. He didn’t mean to sound so surprised—or disparaging—but it was too late. He’d always known Graham was a bit of a lone wolf, but he’d never had difficulty meeting people. He tried to cover for his less than supportive reaction. “I didn’t know you were on a dating website.”

“Thanks for the completely nonjudgmental response, friend,” Graham replied sarcastically. “To be perfectly honest, I think I actually prefer it as a method of meeting people to date. You wouldn’t believe the connection we had, just sending messages to each other before tonight. So don’t go judging me.”

“Sorry.” He rubbed his neck sheepishly. “All right, so you met online. What does she do?”

“She’s been working for her parents’ company—some sort of large business corporation … something.”

“That’s a bit murky.”

“I was pretty fuzzy on the details. Her parents have been grooming her to eventually take over for them, but she’s more interested in her work as a historian.”

“She sounds interesting. What’s the lass’s name?”

“Merida. She’s actually from Scotland, believe it or not.”

Killian stiffened momentarily—Scottish and her parents were prominent businesspeople? But Gold had no daughters, at least not with Milah. Just the one son. He relaxed. “Sounds like we need to find someone from Wales and we’ll round out our United Kingdom crew here,” he joked.

“Well, I can help you set up an account, but I’m not sure, ‘Welsch women only’ is a search option.” Graham sipped his beer. “All joking aside, you haven’t really been seeing anyone lately. You ever think about trying online dating?”

“Not really.” He felt himself stiffen defensively.

“Are you sure? It’s been a while since your last … I’ll go with ‘romantic encounter.’”

“Oi, mate!” Although, he privately admitted, it was true. “How would you even know that?”

Graham shrugged nonchalantly, but he couldn’t hide his small smile. “You just always have this _look_ whenever we see you next, like you’ve got some huge secret. I’m just saying that if you’re having trouble meeting women, I do recommend it. I mean, I’m not suggesting Tinder or anything—though mostly because I haven’t got a clue what it is.”

“Well, while I’m quite flattered to know how concerned you are about my love life, and a tad disturbed to learn that you can _sense_ whether or not I’ve had, as you say, a ‘romantic encounter,’ I’m not sure online dating is going to be the answer to my troubles.”

“What do you mean?”

He stared into his now empty glass. “Jefferson has dared me to ask one of my neighbors out.”

“That sounds like our Jeff,” Graham acknowledged. “Which neighbor? Mulan? Or is she the one dating Phillip’s ex?”

“She is, but no. He dared me to ask out the woman who lives down the hall, who no one seems to know.”

“Oh, _her._ I think I saw her the last time I came over. Long blonde hair? Facial expression that suggests you would do well not to speak to her?”

“That would be her.”

“She is quite beautiful. Are you going to follow through?”

Killian shrugged. “I’m not sure. The more I think about it, the less certain I find myself.”

“Why is that?”

“It’s as you said, mate; the lady clearly does not want to be approached. I’ve no interest in making a woman uncomfortable just to prove myself to Jefferson.”

“But you _are_ interested in dating her?”

“She _is_ beautiful, but I don’t know anything about her. Who’s to say if I’m truly interested? Maybe it’s just the challenge of making a connection with someone who’s made herself totally unavailable.”

“You could always lie to Jefferson.”

“Bad form, Humbert. Bad form.”

“I just think it’s worth considering,” Graham said, with some hesitation. “Asking her out, that is.”

“I _am_ considering it,” he replied. “But considering it doesn’t mean doing it.”

They spent the rest of the evening discussing Graham’s date; it seemed as though they were an excellent match (both of them loved animals, and both of them enjoyed an afternoon at the shooting range—Killian had to give some credit to the dating website for that). It was quite late by the time he arrived at his complex; the doorman simply nodded at him as he strode towards the lift. Typically, he made conversation with the man—Billy—but it was late, and he was a little stressed, thinking both about the work he’d left unfinished all evening, and what to do regarding his neighbor.

As he stepped into the lift and punched the button for the third floor, he heard fast-paced footsteps approaching. Knowing that inconsiderate neighbors weren’t asked to renew their leases, he quickly hit the open door button for the latecomer.

It was _her_. Of course it would be _her_. “Thanks,” she muttered quietly, staring at the floor. She reached for the button for her floor—their floor—and retracted her hand quickly when she realized that he’d already pressed it. She clung to her overnight bag, which was slung over her shoulder, and the quick glimpse he caught of her face revealed red cheeks and smudged eye makeup.

The compulsion to hit the emergency stop button and demand to know what was wrong was almost too strong to resist. What had happened? Why was she so distraught? How did the overnight bag play into the situation?

And she was clearly upset; if he was looking for an opportunity to say something to her, this was it. But the words never came.

When the lift reached their floor, he let her exit first, and after stealing a glance at him, she quickly vanished into her apartment. He made his way into his own flat.

He dropped down on his couch, feeling more inept than he’d felt the first day Liam had tried to teach him to sail. _That_ had been the opportune moment to speak to her. He could have asked if she was all right, or asked what had happened. Or even just let her know he was someone she could count on if she needed to talk. He was silver-tongued enough that he was sure he could have found a way to phrase such an offer without seeming creepy.

Maybe he _was_ a coward.

But no—that was unrelated. Perhaps he could have spoken to her just now, and maybe consoled her, but that wasn’t the same thing as asking her out for the purposes of a dare.

Sunday morning, he woke up early to catch up on his work, only to receive a text from Belle. _Brunch?_

He immediately replied, unable to resist such an invitation. _Meet you there at 10?_

 _Of course._ He chuckled. It was unspoken _where_ they would meet for brunch: his favorite restaurant, _Stephanie’s._

“How has your weekend been?” he asked after they ordered their meal.

“Uneventful,” she said. “And more importantly, _quiet.”_

Killian laughed. “Your newest employee still doesn’t seem to grasp the concept of a library?”

“Not quite. I really _do_ love Anna, but either she’s talking much too loudly in the stacks, or she’s talking some poor student’s head off at the circulation desk and holding up the line.”

“Is she sure that working in a library is right for her?”

“Besides her inability to be quiet, she’s a good fit,” Belle admitted. “And there will be _no_ living with Elsa if I fire her sister. How has your weekend been?”

“Reasonably uneventful. Though I admit, it should have been even _more_ uneventful.”

“What do you mean?” she asked, taking a sip of the tea that the server had just delivered.

“I was planning on spending the weekend catching up on some of my casework, but instead, I spent all Friday evening after work with Jefferson, and last night, I met up with Graham. And of course, I couldn’t resist brunch with my favorite person.”

She chuckled. “Well, you mean you couldn’t resist _brunch.”_

“Two things can be true at once, darling.” He grinned before tasting his Blood Mary. Perfect, as always.

“I thought Graham had a date last night.”

He nodded. “Aye, but she was ill, so the date was a bit abbreviated. I met him at the bar to help him salvage the night.”

“How did it go? I know he was very excited about meeting her.”

“It went fine, but I should leave it to him to give you the details.”

“That’s fair. Well, I’m glad to hear that at least _his_ date went all right.”

“You had a date?” He frowned; since she’d ended her engagement years earlier, before he’d even met her, she rarely dipped her toes into the dating pool. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“To be fair, I didn’t know I was on a date until we were halfway through.” They were interrupted by the arrival of their meal. He took a moment to mentally detach from the conversation, for the sole purpose of closing his eyes and taking in a nice, deep breath of air filled with the scent of corn, chorizo, and cilantro. By god, did he love brunch. When he was with Milah, he would imagine that they would serve brunch at their wedding.

He exhaled. Well, _that_ ruined the moment. He opened his eyes to find Belle already digging into her omelette.

“It was a friend of Elsa’s,” she explained as they ate. “Some social worker. She decided to set us up by inviting him over to hang out with her while I was home, and then very conveniently needing to leave to run some sort of errand. And, of course, she suggested I keep him company in the meantime.”

“I take it you didn’t warm to the fellow?”

“Well, he was all right. But you know I’m not interested in dating anyone, so I didn’t appreciate the sneaky set-up. And then, of course, Anna came over to borrow something, and once she started talking with Kristoff, it was over.”

“Kristoff?”

“Yeah, I think his family is Scandinavian.”

“No, I mean, Kristoff Bjorgson?”

She pursed her lips and set her fork down. “It figures you would know him. How?”

He chuckled. “Family law, love. He’s been called in on some custody cases I’ve worked. He’s an all right fellow, but I wouldn’t have thought him a match for you.”

“That’s the thing I love about our little group,” she said happily. After taking another bite of her meal, she elaborated. “The four of us respect everyone’s dating decisions. I know that you, for example, would never push me to date someone. Even if you thought you’d met the perfect person for me, you’d probably do nothing more than just make the suggestion and leave me to make my own decision.”

He paused, mouth slightly open, before deciding to take a bite of his food instead. She noticed. “What?”

“Well,” he said slowly, when he’d finished the bite (bad form to talk with a full mouth). “Jefferson dared me to ask out my neighbor.”

She laughed. “He what?”

“He rode the lift with her and was apparently astounded that I had not yet ‘hit that.’” He made the appropriate gesture for quotation marks. “And so he dared me to ask her on a date.”

“Is this the neighbor who seems incredibly aloof?”

“That would be the one.”

“I take it you’d rather not cross her boundaries.”

“Yes, thank you!” He raised his glass to her before taking a sip. “See, you understand.”

“I’m all for respecting boundaries,” she said firmly. However, her expression indicated that this was a qualifying statement, not an unwavering demonstration of agreement. “But maybe there’s a way to convey your interest without making her uncomfortable?”

“My interest in what exactly?”

“You talk about her _all the time_ ,” Belle said emphatically. “You’re clearly interested. It might be worth thinking of a method besides just walking on up to her and asking her out.”

“Right, but I’m interested in _what?”_ he repeated, unable to hide his frustration. All three of his friends nudging him into asking his neighbor out, all in the same weekend? Was there something in the water? “Interested in fucking her and then never speaking to her again?” A few older women at a nearby table glared at him when he uttered the expletive.

“Why are you so sure that would happen?”

“How long have you known me, Belle?”

She frowned, as though she knew where he was going with the question. “Ten years.”

“And how many times, in those ten years, have I _ever_ been on more than one date with anyone?” He was glad he had polished off his meal, as he’d now lost his appetite entirely.

“Who says this has to happen that way? Why not take the chance?”

“Didn’t you _just_ speak glowingly about how we _don’t_ pressure each other on the romantic front?” He had never been so happy for the check to arrive in his life. There was no point in splitting the bill—it would take far too long—and he was relieved to find that he was carrying exactly the right amount of cash to cover the whole meal plus a generous tip. He quickly shoved the cash into the check presenter and fumbled for his coat.

Belle was quiet, though he could tell her silence was one brought on by anger and frustration, and not by shock at his behavior. “This is who I am,” he said firmly as he stood up. “I don’t do relationships anymore, not after what happened, and I’m _not_ going to harass some poor woman just to prove to Jefferson that I’m not a coward. We all know what a date with Killian Jones entails, and there’s no use pretending otherwise.” When it became clear that she wasn’t going to reply, he turned and left (nodding curtly at the clearly offended older ladies, who were still staring at him).

He debated walking the three miles home, mostly as a way to work off his anger. It wasn’t terribly chilly out (and he found himself wishing he’d grabbed his leather jacket instead of his peacoat), but the T would be preferable to strolling down Newbury Street, with its sidewalk crawling with tourists and shoppers. Were they quite unable to move at a reasonable pace? Or move to the right and let people pass? Apparently. By the time he reached the next T station, he’d lost what little patience he’d had after leaving brunch, and he gave up on walking.

It was especially frustrating having Belle put even the smallest bit of pressure on him. In their ten years of friendship, he had _never_ pushed her to date anyone, or even questioned her commitment to staying single. He knew what she had been through before coming to the States, and she’d seen firsthand what had happened with Milah. At least Graham knew to back off, and Jefferson … well, Jefferson enjoyed pushing people for his own entertainment. It hardly counted.

But then again, it _hadn’t_ just been Belle. Graham seemed to think it was worth considering. And yes, Jefferson _did_ enjoy pushing people; but if had been for entertainment purposes only, would Jeff have insinuated that his reluctance was due to cowardice? That seemed a little too far, even for Jefferson.

And now Belle, whose attitude towards dating had always been so similar to his own, was explicitly pressing him to follow through. Both she and Graham had indicated that he might do well to think of a method that would be respectful of his neighbor’s aloofness.

By the time he reached his apartment, he felt like quite a fool. But there was no time to dwell on what had happened at brunch, not when he had casework to finish. Of course, he was only perhaps halfway through (enough done that he wouldn’t start the week behind, but not enough to start the week ahead) when he finally gave up all pretense of having his mind on his work. It was still too early to start cooking supper, especially given the meal he’d eaten earlier, and the fact that he knew he’d need to call Belle at some point and apologize. His stomach suddenly felt much too small to even consider a meal in the near future, and so he picked up his phone.

“I’m sorry,” he said immediately, foregoing a more respectable greeting. “I’m a wanker.”

“You are,” she said firmly. “And you’re also an idiot.”

“I am.” A gentleman took his lumps when he behaved dishonorably. “I shouldn’t have lashed out at you. I know you’re just trying to look out for me.”

“I really am,” she said insistently. “And you know, I listen when you talk. I know that you’ve got more than a passing, mild interest in your neighbor. And I know that you’re not satisfied with your love life. You’ve hardly been on a date at all in the past six months.”

While Graham (apparently) could guess when “romantic encounters” occurred, Belle was usually in the loop. And he really _hadn’t_ been satisfied lately—emotionally, at least. “I don’t know,” he said, unable to articulate himself well—a rare occurrence. “To be honest, I’ve no idea how to turn this around, if that makes any sense.”

“It does make sense. I wish I had a formula of sorts for you, Killian. I really do. But I’m hardly one to talk about successfully dating someone, or starting a relationship. The most romance I’m ever ready for is whatever’s in the book I’m reading.”

He chuckled. “Darling, we both know that it’s possible to give advice on a topic, even if you’re struggling in that arena yourself.” He sighed. “I just wish there were some way for me to get to know her a bit better before having to, you know, _really_ put myself out there.”

“Shy, Killian?”

“Oh, stop.”

“Well, what do you mean exactly?”

“I don’t want to put her on the spot, and if we don’t know each other too well, I’ll likely either end up rejected, or worse, leaving her apartment at six o’clock in the morning, rushing out the door with my shoes half on, feeding her some bullshit over having to get to an early meeting while she comments that it’s Sunday.” The comment garnered a laugh from Belle, but as he said it, he realized another significant issue he’d have to contend with. “Bloody hell. This is never going to work. She lives _down the hall._ I’m a confident man, but I’m not looking forward to bumping into her after _either_ scenario.”

“Maybe that just means you won’t be able to sleep with her and never see her again.”

“What if I end up disliking her, though? I don’t even _know_ her. And this is just assuming she accepts an invitation to dinner. If she declines, I don’t want her being uncomfortable or, worse, afraid every time she sees me.”

“So basically, you want to get to know her first. Why don’t you just ask her to join us sometime when we’re going out for drinks?”

“That’s still very date-like, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, I suppose.” She sighed. “It’s too bad you didn’t meet online like Graham and his date did.”

“What do you mean?”

“They could send each other messages through the website,” she reminded him. “If they hadn’t really connected that way, they would have known that meeting in person was a waste of time. That’s the only way I can really think of how you could get to know each other without going on a date first.”

“Well, even then, I assume these websites involve photographs. Even if I were to be so fortunate as to find her online, she would recognize me immediately.”

“True.” There was a sound in the background. “I need to go. Elsa just got home and I know she’s going to want to talk about the ‘date’ last night. I’ll talk to you later?”

“Of course, love. Best of luck with Elsa.”

And so his weekend ended with him staring at his laptop screen, trying to get work done, while mulling over what his friends had said to him regarding his neighbor.

His problem was clear: he wanted a way to get to know her _before_ dating her. There seemed no other way to avoid what he knew would happen otherwise, which involved him going back to her place after dinner or drinks, engaging in a night of passion, and then sneaking out the next morning (or, as he’d begun to do more recently, later that same night).

It wasn’t simply that it would make their living situation extremely unpleasant, since they would inevitably bump into each other. He just wanted to be _done_ with the business of one night stands, but it had been years since he had done anything else. Did he even have anything else to give?

It was too bad he couldn’t take Graham’s route, at least not with his neighbor. Perhaps he’d consider it if this venture failed; Graham did seem excited about the potential he had with his newfound lady love. It was unfortunate that there was no way to implement some of the mechanics of online dating in this situation, since—as Belle had mused—it would be quite beneficial.

But it wasn’t as though he could simply write up a message and, say, stick it under her door.

Right?

He shook his head and forced himself to focus on his casework. But thirty minutes later, he’d hardly made a dent in it.

 _Could_ he just write her a note and leave it under her door?

Of course not.

Another thirty minutes passed, and he found himself rereading the same passage of the case over and over without taking any of the information in. Why _couldn’t_ he leave her a note? She was free to ignore the message if she wasn’t interested. And he could remain entirely anonymous; if they were incompatible, or she declined to reply, she never need know that he was the one contacting her.

He went to open a new document, but the thought of Spencer’s disappointed expression gave him pause. He could think of what to write to his neighbor during his lunch break tomorrow, but he’d spent enough of the weekend distracting himself from his work.

And so, during his lunch break (abbreviated, due to the new communications he’d had with Amelia Zimmerman’s attorney), he found a few minutes to type out the least provocative message he could think of. When he returned home, he slid it under her whimsical doormat before heading down to the fitness center to burn off some of his anxiety. 

> _It is my sincerest hope that you had a lovely Monday._
> 
> _With affection,  
> _ _A secret admirer_


	2. Chapter Two

After his workout, Killian returned to the third floor to find that a few of the laundry machines were mercifully available. He could easily go a few more days without needing to run a load, but with the abysmal laundry situation in this otherwise excellent complex, it was never a bad idea to do laundry earlier than necessary. He hurried to his flat for his hamper, noting along the way that the envelope he’d slid under his neighbor’s doormat was now missing.

He knew it wasn’t physically possible for his stomach to perform a flip, but it certainly felt as though it were doing exactly that.

As he finished loading a washing machine, he heard the door to the laundry room swing open, and before he could turn to see who had entered, he heard an irritated and very pronounced groan. He turned to find Swan dressed in bulky gray sweats, carrying her own very full laundry basket, and looking a little embarrassed.

Had she read the letter? Did she know that he’d left it? She wasn’t saying anything. Just in case, he smiled reassuringly at her. Her cheeks turned pink, but she remained silent as she walked up to the last free machine and began loading it. He turned back to his task, his heart thudding in his chest. It was almost enjoyable, being in the same room with her, knowing that she had just read (or was about to read) a message from him. Would she guess it was him? Would she reply right away?

On Tuesday, it occurred to him that she might not reply at all. Every opportunity he had to leave his flat and walk by hers, he’d pass by and see nothing underneath her doormat. By the time he left for work Wednesday morning, he resolved to give her until the end of the week, and then give up. Not on her, but on the plan: he would simply introduce himself face to face, explain that he’d left the note, ask her out properly, and hope for the best.

He was _not_ a coward.

But Wednesday when he returned from work, there was something yellow peeking out from underneath the doormat.

Glancing around to make sure he was alone in the hallway (he had no intention of turning into the creepy neighbor who lurked around other people’s doors), he quickly strode over to get a better look. It was a single sheet of folded paper from a yellow legal pad, and it had no visible writing. Was it meant for him? He pulled it out from under the mat and unfolded it.

> _As good as any Monday could ever be. Like any normal human, I live for the weekend._
> 
> _Isn’t this a little bit middle school?_

He chuckled at the barb. But she’d _replied._ She’d actually _replied._ He rushed to his own door and nearly dropped his key trying to get into his flat. She’d _replied._

He quickly got his laptop open; it was much easier to reply to her message than it had been to come up with the first one he’d left. Even with such a short message, he could practically taste her personality—or at least, the sarcasm and slightly raised eyebrow were apparent.

> _I’m a little disappointed to hear that my first note didn’t brighten your Monday, but I suppose that brightening any Monday might be an impossible task, even for someone as charming as I am. As for the maturity of this method of interaction, I assure you that I am, in fact, not in middle school. Certainly, absolutely not in middle school. This is simply an enjoyable way to contact you and let you know of my affections._
> 
> _Eagerly awaiting your reply,  
> _ _Your secret admirer_

Once it was printed, he stuffed it in an envelope as he had before—the consistency was important, he reasoned, as it counted towards presentation—and poked his head into the hallway. Convinced that the coast was clear, he left the new note under her doormat.

His phone rang once he returned to his flat. He glanced at the caller ID and sighed. “Jefferson,” he said coolly as he answered.

“Hey, buddy,” Jefferson said, elongating the first word long enough that Killian knew exactly why he was calling. “How’s it going?”

“Can you clarify the terms of our dare for me?” he asked, cutting to the chase.

“You’re absolutely no fun, Killian. You have to ask her out. That’s it.”

“Define asking her out.”

“I’m not a damn lawyer. I own a hat shop.”

“So as a small business owner, you are entirely capable of dealing with bureaucracy and fine print. Let’s have it, mate.”

“You have to speak to her in a manner that makes clear your romantic intentions.”

Promising. “Would the written word suffice, or must it be verbal?”

“That’s context dependent,” Jefferson said. “For example, if you were to strike up a conversation with her and get her number, but in a platonic way, but then you texted her to ask her on a date? That would fulfill the terms.”

“But?”

“God, Killian, I don’t know. What did you do exactly?”

“I explicitly let her know of my affections.”

“How?”

He rolled his eyes. “A note.”

“Is this middle school?”

He briefly wondered if Jefferson was in cahoots with Swan. “Well?”

“Does she know it’s from you?”

“No,” he admitted.

“Doesn’t count then.”

“Oi, come on, mate.” He reached over to turn on the oven before questioning whether or not he’d have much of an appetite after the conversation. Then again, he’d missed lunch; he turned it on.

“Sorry, Killian. You’ve got to ask her out, and she has to know it’s you.”

“Fine.”

“Gotta go—Grace needs help with her homework assignment.”

“Tell her Uncle Killian says hi.”

“Will do.”

He supposed, as he prepared dinner, that Jefferson was right. In terms of the dare, anonymous letters were a cop out. But should it even matter? He might have only committed to asking her out as per those terms, but while Jefferson seemed to only intend for him to fulfill the dare and nothing more, Killian had never intended on _nothing more_. It was time to see if his heart still worked. And asking someone out was a first step.

If things didn’t fall apart immediately, he would eventually fulfill the terms of the dare and ask her on a proper date. It was only a matter of time.

He spotted the reply note as he left for work the next morning; it was a struggle to refrain from reading it on the T, but the most he could ever do on the train in the morning was stand awkwardly, clutch at the nearest pole or bar, and maybe swipe through the news on his phone. Besides, he wasn’t sure he wanted to read her response in public; waiting until he was safely behind his desk, with his office door closed, was the best course of action.

> _Well, aren’t_ you _a weird one. A grown adult who announces their crush through anonymous messages? The only way to make this better would be to ask, “Do you like me?” and have checkboxes for “Yes,” “No,” and “Maybe.”_
> 
> _But you’re clearly persistent. What should I call you? “Secret admirer?” I need_ something _to call you when I gossip to my friends that I’m the luckiest gal in school._

There it was again: her dry wit. He imagined, based on their limited interactions, that her voice was naturally low, and that her genuine smiles were harder to come by than her smirks.

But more than that, he could feel the same walls he knew he had around his own heart. By all accounts, she was mocking him: the short missive hinged mainly on the criticism that the method of interaction was incredibly puerile. The question of how to address him was phrased sarcastically and shifted the desire for knowledge from herself to her friends. But if she truly felt that he was too persistent, immature, or inappropriate, she could have simply stopped replying entirely, or explicitly asked him to leave her alone. It was as though she enjoyed the attention, but that she was incapable of simply saying so.

But she was also challenging him. By insinuating that he was a schoolboy, she was instilling the urge to admit he was an attorney. The request for a name read as a request for his _real_ name, and even then, it felt more like a demand than a request.

Fascinating. He typed his reply over lunch.

> _My dear, you should call me whatever you’d like. I’d like to think of myself as a rather dashing rapscallion, but I understand if you think that seems like an odd choice for a nickname. I’d reveal my name to you, but you strike me as the investigative type, and I’d prefer to keep some semblance of anonymity for now._
> 
> _I look forward to your next correspondence. I suppose it’s all right if my messages don’t bring a smile to your face; yours certainly bring a smile to mine._
> 
> _Very, very much yours,  
> _ _Your secret admirer (dashing rapscallion, perhaps?)_

However, even if he was resisting most of her attempts to challenge him, he couldn’t resist all of them. He quickly typed “Do you like me?” before adding and spacing out, “Yes,” “No,” and “Maybe,” and hand-drew the corresponding boxes (he still needed a ruler to do so; why couldn’t the accident have affected his non-dominant hand?).

He wouldn’t say no to “dashing rapscallion” as a nickname, as long as the odds were that she’d use it.

He slipped the note under her doormat when he returned home, but before he could settle in and cook dinner, there was a text from Jefferson. _world series tonight, my place, grahams bringing beer._

He replied. _Is Belle in or out?_

_she’s in, grace demanded it._

He laughed. _Sounds lovely. I’ll be there in an hour._ Baseball would be a satisfactory distraction (he wasn’t opposed to watching the American League win), and he wanted to see Grace. He’d barely had time to see her since the school year started, especially since she spent every other weekend at her grandparents’ house.

To his surprise, as he was about to exit the building and head for the train, he was nearly knocked completely off his feet by Swan. She barely glanced at him and let out a quick, breathless, “Sorry,” before making a beeline for the elevator.

“You all right?” Sidney, the weekday doorman, asked. “She almost floored you.”

“I’m fine, mate,” he replied, resisting the urge to quip that she’d floored him a year ago. “Didn’t even fall. Have a good night!”

He felt a little sheepish; would he be irritated if it had been someone else running him over? Was he just feeling forgiving because it was _her_ , and he didn’t have it in him to be annoyed at the woman he was interested in romantically? But it didn’t matter.

The ballgame was enjoyable, at least. All three of his friends refrained from commenting on his situation with Swan, Grace proudly showed off the diorama she’d made for a class project, and while the game was still exciting, it wasn’t close enough to be stressful to watch.

Grace was also adamant that they all join her and Jefferson on Saturday, before he took her trick-or-treating. “I promised we’d go apple picking and it’s almost the end of the season,” Jefferson said apologetically. “And the place is having some fun Halloween events, too.”

“Of course we’ll come,” Belle said warmly, although Killian privately wished his opinion had been consulted on the matter. It’s not as though he was reluctant to spend time with Grace, but he’d hoped to spend some time Saturday going through some of his casework, and with the driving time to the nearest orchard, it meant he’d be giving up his whole day. But when Jefferson made it clear that no one had to wear a costume, and Graham volunteered to drive so they could take two cars, he resolved to go and make the best of the situation (and perhaps surreptitiously convince Graham to call it a day early).

And so it wasn’t until he returned to the building, late Saturday afternoon, carrying a bag heavy with Honeycrisp and McIntosh apples in one hand and a medium sized pumpkin in the other, that he finally picked up the yellow lined reply tucked under her doormat. He’d spotted it on his way out in the morning, but he’d balked at the idea of reading it in front of his friends, or, worse, losing it along the way.

> _Well, since I’m currently eating Cap’n Crunch, I think I’ll call you Captain. How does that sound? Or are you secretly/not-so-secretly devastated that I’m not nicknaming you “dashing rapscallion?” Be honest. I’ll know if you’re lying._
> 
> _Perhaps this is an unbelievably awkward question, but it’s probably more awkward for you, so: you never address me properly. Do you even_ know _my name? So called “admirer?”_

Underneath, she’d copied the boxes from his previous note; there was a clear checkmark in the “Maybe” box. It was better than he could have expected.

Had she truly been eating such dreck, or did she know about the _Jolly Roger?_ He wasn’t sure which he preferred; a woman with such terrible taste in breakfast foods might not be the best match for him after all. But really—did she know? If she didn’t, it was the luckiest guess she could have made (besides nicknaming him “Lawyer” or something like that).

He felt a little anxious as he read the second paragraph; perhaps he would wait until tomorrow to cook the pumpkin. She really _was_ the investigative type, clearly: she’d sussed out the fact that he didn’t know her first name.

But if she was challenging him, it wasn’t with the expectation that he’d back off. She’d checked “Maybe.” She might be waiting for more before she could admit her interest.

He grabbed his laptop. True, he didn’t know her first name, but he’d be damned if he was going to be the only one with a nickname. 

> _I happily accept this new nickname, and I shall insist upon being addressed as such. If you don’t follow through, I shall have to correct you._
> 
> _I shall tell the truth, as I always do: as I am a tenant in this building, I’ve discerned your surname from your mailbox. I’m quite perceptive. You, however, seem rather unimpressed and—dare I say it?—a tad offended at the_ idea _that I might not know your name. Granted, I don’t, as I see no benefits to be had by stalking you. But since you seem so aggrieved at the mere_ notion _that I should fancy a woman whose name I do not know, I shall have to give you a nickname of my own. How about Princess? Like, Swan Princess? Get it? As you can see, I’m incredibly clever._
> 
> _I’m going to pretend that I’m not judging you heavily for your eating habits. Have you tried cereal that doesn’t tear your mouth to shreds? Or does the metallic taste of blood make the cereal more palatable?_

He paused. He’d intended to end the missive there, hoping that the nickname and the questions regarding her cereal-related judgment might be enough to keep her interested. But he glanced over at her “Maybe.” Perhaps her indecision had less to do with her own pride and more to do with the overnight bag.

> _Finally, you had an awkward question for me, which I have happily answered for you. So now, if you could possibly_ answer _an awkward question: Are you, for lack of a better term, available? Is this poor captain pining after a woman whose heart belongs to another? I’d like to believe that you are indeed unattached, seeing as you’ve been replying to my letters thus far. And I am a man who is not often wrong. But then again, your “Maybe” in your earlier missive was difficult to analyze. So, if you are indeed spoken for, then I hope Your Highness will please accept my humblest apologies, and forgive me these transgressions._
> 
> _Eagerly/nervously anticipating your response,  
> _ _Your Captain_

Checking the hallway quickly, he slipped the note under the mat and returned to his flat. If he was going to spend Sunday baking, he’d need his pumpkin puree ready, and the gourd wasn’t going to cook itself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the lovely feedback so far! It's a bit strange because, like ... we all know how this is going to end, you know? But I hope that you're enjoying seeing Killian's perspective, and I've tried hard not to involve much copying or pasting besides letters.
> 
> As an FYI, I'm updating this every other day. I usually update daily, but given my new work schedule, it's a bit harder. And since, as I said, "What happens next?!!" is a question y'all know the answer to already, waiting an extra day doesn't make too much of a difference. Anyway, thanks for reading so far!


	3. Chapter Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content note: This chapter contains explicit sexual content.

Sunday morning, Killian rose early, but was disappointed to find that he was out of several key ingredients he’d assumed he’d had on hand, both for a hearty home-cooked Sunday breakfast _and_ for the apple crisp he’d planned on baking. After a quick but intense internal debate regarding a plan of action, which involved swift pacing in the living room as he arrived at his decision, he dressed and left for the grocery store. But when he spotted the note under Swan’s doormat, he decided the grocery store would have to wait.

> _Well, Captain, since you seem to suffer from the delusion that I’m royalty, I’m just going to play along and take advantage of your mistake. As a princess, I expect a lot of groveling, just so you know. It’s just how I roll._
> 
> _My first royal act will be to grant you a pardon for your incredibly rude comment concerning what everyone knows is a delicious part of a balanced breakfast (or dinner). Can you seriously top Cap’n Crunch? Do you think you’re more of a Cap’n than he is?_
> 
> _As for your awkward question: I am, for lack of a better term, available. Your move._

His move. He grinned and made a mental note to thank Graham for explaining the advantages of online dating. The man had not been lying about the benefits of written communication.

His stomach growled, reminding him that breakfast was on hold until he ran his errand. His reply would have to wait, but that was fine. It was, after all, his move. He should mull it over.

As he exited the building, he saw a man standing on the sidewalk, anxiously making a phone call and glancing up at the complex. “Look, you can’t just break up with me over the phone. I don’t want to have to ask the doorman to let me in, but you’re seriously underestimating me. You have to stop ignoring my calls.”

“Oi, mate,” Killian said, stepping over. The man looked vaguely familiar, but Killian wasn’t sure where he would have seen him before, and the man didn’t seem to recognize him either. “If they don’t want to see you, you might want to pack up and go home. The doorman won’t let you in anyway.”

“Mind your own business, buddy,” the man replied angrily, before tapping at his phone and groaning in frustration. “Now I have to leave the message again.”

“Suit yourself.” He dashed back into the complex, where Anton was working behind the desk. “Hey, Tiny!” The man perked up at the nickname he’d been given by the majority of the tenants. “There’s a man outside who seems to be threatening someone who lives here.” He pointed through the glass door.

“Threatening?” Anton picked up the phone. “Can you be more specific?”

“Sounds like he got dumped, and his ex lives here. He was saying he or she couldn’t just break up with him over the phone, that he’d get you to let him in, and that he was being underestimated. Perhaps I’m being overly cautious, but I’d rather not take any chances.”

“Yikes. Thanks, Mr. Jones. I’ll take care of the situation.”

“Thanks, mate.”

When he returned from the market, the man was gone. And soon his flat was filled with the smells of pumpkin and apple, making it very pleasurable to relax at his desk and go through his casework.

Or, more accurately, type out his response to his Swan Princess. If she was single, then it was time to do more than just flirt through letters. He briefly thought about taking their interactions out of the second dimension and into the third, but for the first time since he began leaving the notes, he felt a pressing panic in his chest. No—it was too soon. She was interested, of course, as was he, but he needed to be more than simply _interested._ Interested was enough for drinks and a satisfying fuck before never speaking again. He needed something _more_ than interested.

But there were ways to court her without either sticking to the written word or knocking on her door. There were spaces in between. And there _was_ the matter of her questionable taste in breakfast food. He quickly phoned _Stephanie’s_ before getting to the letter.

> _My dearest, most regal Princess,_
> 
> _Dropping some of the attitude for a moment, if you’ll allow it, I’m honestly relieved that you’re actually available. Given your incredible beauty, I’d assumed that it would be impossible for you to be single._
> 
> _But I must insist that you are wrong about the Cap’n; I am certainly more of a Cap’n than he is. Does he have a boat? I am quite certain one must have a boat to be a Captain. I have a boat, and he does not, ergo: I am more Cap’n than Cap’n Crunch._
> 
> _Since your divinely royal taste buds have been mistreated for so long, I must insist that you experience Sunday Brunch at Stephanie’s on Newbury. As your humble Captain/admirer/dashing rapscallion, I have already made the necessary arrangements for you to dine there on your next free Sunday; when they ask for a name, just tell them you’re the Swan Princess. I also must insist that you bring along a friend, someone who deserves a delicious meal and the pleasure of your company, so that word may spread among your circle that your Captain takes secret admiring quite seriously. And that he takes his breakfast seriously—this is very important, your Highness. I recommend the cinnamon oatmeal brûlée._
> 
> _Truly yours,  
> _ _Your Captain/rapscallion (I do think that’s a rather inspired nickname)_

He hoped that he wasn’t being too forward. But at this point, this was as far as he knew he could go. Jefferson surely wouldn’t consider it a date, and to be sure, it wouldn’t be one with him.

But he had to make sure he was spending his time and effort on a person who could appreciate decent brunch. It was a priority.

Monday morning, Killian picked up Swan’s reply on his way to work.

> _Captain—_
> 
> _You’re really upping the stakes now. What if I really_ do _take you up on that offer? Can I order anything I’d like? What about my friend of choice? What if things end up getting a bit romantic between my friend and me while we’re enjoying such a scrumptious brunch? Wouldn’t that be a conflict of interest for you? Look, I’m just trying to point out some rookie secret admirer mistakes you’re making._
> 
> _Do you really have a boat? You need to be careful. What if I fall head over heels for you and you lied about having a boat? That would be a serious problem._  

He snorted in offense as he read the boat comments, garnering the (unwanted) attention of his boss, Albert Spencer, who’d at that moment ducked his head in. “Something funny, Jones?”

“No, sir.” There was no reason to alert Spencer to the fact that he’d been reading a personal note at the office. “I’ve got updates on the Tillman case, by the way, if you’re available to meet this afternoon.”

“Excellent. Two o’clock, Jones.”

“I’ll be there, sir.”

Boat comments aside, he was pleased to see that she wasn’t backing down in response to his offer for brunch. At the very least, she hadn’t outright rejected it, or indicated that he was moving too quickly. Granted, it wasn’t a date with him, but it was the first real-life action that he was suggesting. That she had not shied away from him was a good sign.

He left his reply before starting his laundry.

> _My most royal and regal of princesses,_
> 
> _Of fucking course I actually own a boat. I am insulted that you would think I would lie about such a serious matter. You will have to excuse me; I must take a moment to regain my composure._
> 
> _As for your upcoming brunch plans, I am incredibly confident that your experience will be so incredible and pleasurable—in a culinary manner, of course—that you will be immediately and immeasurably grateful that I, ever your humble servant and well-known Secret Admirer of the Princess, provided you with such a magical affair. Whichever lucky friend you bring along will almost certainly attempt to compete with you for my affections, so I shall assure you that my heart, of course, belongs solely to you._
> 
> _I’m sorry, but again, of_ fucking course _I own a boat, how could you even—_
> 
> _Forever yours, snide boat-related remarks aside,  
> _ _Your Captain_

He was careful to read her reply the following day when the majority of his colleagues—and Spencer—were out for lunch.

> _Captain—_
> 
> _Calm the fuck down, please, by order of the Princess. Do you seriously have a boat? Are you telling me that my completely random nickname for you, chosen on the basis of the cereal I was eating for dinner (like an adult), was actually accurate?_
> 
> _Regarding brunch, you might not want to hype it up too much. By the time you get this note, it’ll probably be Tuesday, and brunch isn’t happening until Sunday. If you oversell this place, and I can’t find it within the goodness of my heart to lie to you, I’m terribly worried about what will happen to your poor, poor ego._

He frowned. He’d hoped she’d find his righteous indignation amusing, whereas she’d been turned off by it. She still had enough humor to joke about her terrible taste in cereal, so that was a bright spot. Perhaps he needed to tone some of it down, though she did seem committed to brunch plans.

> _Your Highness,_
> 
> _I really, truly, absolutely do own a boat, and to be quite frank, I am a little suspicious that you actually know who I am, and that you’re pretending to have terrible taste in breakfast cereal in order to throw me off._
> 
> _I can assure you that there is no possible way to overhype this brunch for you. In fact, I must insist that you order the French toast, the cinnamon oatmeal brûlée I already told you about, and a Bloody Mary with Absolut vodka, Stephanie’s famous mix, and either a celery stick (if you’re a traditional, stick-in-the-mud sort of princess) or a red hot chili pepper (if you’re an adventurous, courageous, pirate wench type of princess). My dearest Swan Princess, I don’t mean to alarm you, but if you order these exact items, you might find yourself begging me to reveal my identity to you so that you can properly thank me._
> 
> _Your most humble servant obviously,  
> _ _Your Captain_

He hoped that the first paragraph would make amends for his perceived overreaction, and also clarify whether or not she _did_ know who he was. But he couldn’t resist the tiniest bit of innuendo towards the end. After all, Graham had said that the benefit of this sort of communication was getting to know the other person’s character; it wouldn’t do to hide his personality.

The reply he found on Wednesday morning was quite a surprise. Not only could he spot a white sheet of paper folded up inside her signature yellow note, but there was also a broken-down box of Cap’n Crunch cereal. He quickly tossed the cereal box into his flat before rushing to catch the T; even if it had been easy to stuff it in his briefcase (and it wasn’t), there was no way he was going to tote a cereal box around at work. But it was a struggle to wait until lunch to read the note and see what the white sheet of paper was.

It was a selfie.

It was printed in low-quality and black and white on copier paper, and it had been taken in what looked to be her kitchen—from what little he could see, the cabinetry looked similar to that in his flat. In the photo, a smirking Swan held up a spoon of cereal; he blushed, wondering if she realized she’d angled the photo such that he could see the swell of her braless breasts under a low-cut camisole. Bloody hell.

He laughed out loud when he read the accompanying letter. 

> _Captain—_
> 
> _Please find attached one (1) broken down Cap’n Crunch box and one (1) printed selfie showing me eating Capn Crunch_
> 
> _I figure you already know who I am and I look like. So a photo of me eating cereal isn’t any sort of surprise or whatever._
> 
> _Seriously. You’ve got my attention, Captain. Why stay secret? Your all powerful royal demands to know._
> 
> _PS I’m not gonna lie to you because I respect you so I am pretty fucking trashed right now_

That explained quite a bit. And she was right; although he’d never seen _that_ much of her breasts before, he did know what she looked like. It wasn’t a revelation, as it would be if he were the one to send her a photo.

> _Princess—_
> 
> _I offer my most humble apologies for impugning your reputation by insinuating that you were a stick in the mud. Clearly, you are adventurous, free-spirited, unpredictable, and quite serious about your weaponized breakfast cereal._
> 
> _I am intensely curious about the circumstances surrounding Her Highness’ drunken escapades. Perhaps she might indulge me by describing what sort of wild events went on that led to her getting extraordinarily tanked on a week night._
> 
> _As for the continued secrecy? Perhaps I am extremely good-looking and wish to ensure your interest on the merits of my razor sharp wit. Or perhaps I am quite homely and, again, wish to ensure your interest on the merits of my razor sharp wit. I could go on, but I’m sure you are currently far too hungover to appreciate said razor sharp wit._
> 
> _Best wishes for a speedy recovery,  
> _ _Captain (Razor Sharp Wit)_

The first part of her message the following day cheered him.

> _Captain—_
> 
> _I was out with friends last night. The birthday girl, my best friend from college, owns a restaurant, so she closed it down early so we could hang out. I got a few texts from her this morning; apparently, five of us managed to drain several bottles of liquor. According to my sister, who was the designated driver, I started threatening to bite people who tried to take the bottle of Maker’s away from me._
> 
> _Still interested?_

Absolutely. But the rest of the note left him feeling out of sorts. 

> _I may have been drunk last night, but I stand by my earlier question: why keep things a secret? I’m single. I assume you’re single. I’ve told you I’m interested. So?_

And so the letter was quite a mixed bag. While he enjoyed the mental image of his princess fighting off anyone who would dare to relieve her of her alcohol, and while he was quite pleased to learn that she drank whiskey, he was disappointed that the explanation that might have satisfied an intoxicated Swan was ineffective on the sober version.

What could he really say? That he was trying to protect her until he was ready to move beyond the realm of fun and flirty, and into the realm of serious commitment? His appetite for his lunch disappeared.

Would she stop communicating with him if he didn’t agree to meet? Would she believe him if he tried to relate to her just how damaged he was? That he might not even be capable of giving her what she truly deserved?

A date with Killian Jones always ended the same way.

He wasn’t ready. He just wasn’t ready. But she couldn’t know that. He couldn’t lie to her, but there were other benefits to be had by sticking to the written word. He would focus on those.

> _Your Royal Highness,_
> 
> _I must say, it’s very, very flattering that you’re suddenly so impatient to meet. Now, if you must know, I’m an old, romantic soul. I want a woman to be properly, thoroughly romanced. I’m not a bad looking fellow, I assure you, and I’m sure if you and I were to meet and see each other socially in the fashion to which you are accustomed, you would find the experience quite satisfactory._
> 
> _But you are clearly an exceptional woman, my Princess. You must be courted expertly, and I am, I assure you, just the right person to do that. In my hands, I give you my word as a gentleman, you will be perfectly and utterly pleased._
> 
> _Still sure you want to call all this foreplay off early?_
> 
> _Your Captain_

He left the note as soon as he got home, which was earlier than usual—he had no meetings or conference calls the rest of the day, and the queasiness he’d felt since reading her letter hadn’t dissipated. And so he tried to relax, sipping some of his fine scotch and hoping that she wouldn’t see the coward hiding behind the innuendo, that she wouldn’t call it quits.

No, he wasn’t a coward. He was just being careful.

But clearly, something had gone wrong. There was no reply Friday morning, and by that evening, he was agitated. He didn’t want to press her, but this _was_ unusual. He figured that there was no harm in breaking the back-and-forth; she would at least know that he was thinking about her, and that he just wanted to make sure she was all right.

> _Princess,_
> 
> _I must admit that I am a little disappointed at your lack of reply. I’m usually quite understanding when a woman isn’t quite able to handle the sort of attentions I can provide, but you are clearly not an ordinary woman. I’m happy to revert back to our earlier playful banter if you’d be more comfortable, but you’ll have to let me know._
> 
> _All teasing aside, I do hope that if I have indeed crossed a boundary, that you will inform me of my misstep. And if I haven’t? Then I very, very much look forward to your response._
> 
> _Your Captain_

At the very least, if she was terribly upset with him regarding his reluctance to meet, she could be an adult and say something. Or at least, that’s what he reasoned as he threw the remains of his dinner into a plastic container. He’d try to finish it tomorrow.

But Saturday, there was still no reply, and his previous missive was still there. He called Belle, hoping she wouldn’t be irritated at the early morning weekend call.

“Killian, is everything okay?”

“You recall my neighbor I wanted to ask out?”

“Of course. What happened?”

He sighed. “Will you promise not to judge me too harshly?”

“What exactly did you do?”

“You haven’t promised.”

“Fine, I promise. What’s wrong? You’re scaring me.”

“I …” He paused. “This sounds quite mad, but I …”

“Killian,” Belle said firmly. He knew what that meant: _Get to the point._

“I’ve been leaving her letters as her secret admirer.” He braced himself for the impending criticism.

But instead, Belle let out a small, happy gasp. “That’s really sweet! Has she been replying? What’s her name? Are you thinking about meeting in person?”

“She has, and I don’t know, and not yet,” he said quickly. “Actually, that’s the problem. She wants to know why I’m reluctant to meet in person.”

“Why _are_ you? Wasn’t the whole point to date her?”

“I’m just …” He let out a frustrated huff.

“You’re not ready,” she finished for him.

“I’m not.”

“That’s okay. Just tell her that.”

“Well, that’s the thing.” He quickly switched his phone to his right hand, as his left one was cramping fiercely already; he hadn’t realized how tightly he’d been gripping it. “She’s stopped replying without explanation. I think she’s angry with me; I may have been a little too forward.”

“You’re not sending her anything filthy, are you?” Her voice dripped with disapproval, and he could easily envision her expression.

“Of course not!” he replied indignantly; innuendo hardly counted. “I was mildly flirtatious at most. But I just need to know what to do now.”

“When did she last reply?”

“Thursday morning. I left her a reply in the afternoon and she definitely received it. I left another message last night, letting her know that I was sorry if I made her uncomfortable and that I hoped she’d let me know.”

“And I’m guessing you’ve checked already and there’s still no new note?”

“You are correct, as always, love.”

“Okay.” She made that little noise she made when she was getting down to some serious thinking; it was a long exhale through the nose, and she’d twist her mouth to the side and look very much like the dictionary definition of “ponder.” “All right. I don’t want to disappoint you, but yeah, I think maybe she’s calling it quits.”

He sighed shakily. “So no more letters?”

“Probably not. Sorry, Killian. I know how invested you were in trying to get to know this person.”

“That’s all right. You know I’ll be fine. Thanks for talking me down a bit; I needed it.”

“You know I’m happy to help. Maybe drinks later this week?”

“Sounds lovely. I’ll talk to you later.”

Belle was right: he’d overplayed his hand and ended up taking things too far. Heading back to his laptop, he clicked out of the blank document he’d been saving for his next missive and glanced over the one in the window behind it, containing the last message he’d sent.

He could certainly see how it might not have been an appropriate apology. The comments regarding what type of woman he thought she was were still overly flirtatious, at least given the circumstances. If he was worried that he’d upset her, he shouldn’t have doubled down. He should have just very simply apologized and agreed to back off.

He opened a new document again. That’s just what he would do, then.

> _Swan,_
> 
> _Okay, I_ really _am sorry if I’ve made you uncomfortable. Clearly, I misread your interest, and I apologize. I really do hope that you’ll give me another chance, but I completely understand if you don’t._
> 
> _Your Captain_
> 
> _P.S. I’m embarrassed enough that I’d really rather prefer to hide behind my pseudonym. I hope you understand._

Early Sunday afternoon, he stepped off the elevator onto the third floor, dripping with sweat from a particularly grueling workout. It had taken all of his energy to distract himself from his disappointment regarding Swan’s rejection, and the dull ache in his back reminded him that, though he wasn’t _that_ old, perhaps he was too old to be pushing himself as hard as he had.

And then he spotted the yellow paper under the doormat. As usual, he made sure the hallway was empty before grabbing it and practically jogging to his own door. What had she said? Was she letting him down gently? Had she accepted his apology? Or, he dared to hope, was this all a misunderstanding. 

> _My Captain,_
> 
> _You definitely have not crossed a line. Thanks for apologizing and offering to leave me alone, but you did nothing wrong and you don’t need to leave me alone._
> 
> _I came home Thursday night really briefly, so I grabbed your note but didn’t read it. I only got home super late last night, so I’m just getting to everything now._
> 
> _Honestly, I really need to thank you. I was gone because my dad had a heart attack on Thursday, and I had to go home. He’s fine—like, really, actually fine, but now I’m home and really needed a return to normalcy. This morning, one of my friends and I went to Stephanie’s, and you were absolutely 100% correct. There was no way you could have overhyped that food. The oatmeal will probably haunt my dreams. I didn’t get the Bloody Mary, though. I hope that’s okay._
> 
> _I’ll be straight with you, Captain. I did kind of like seeing a note from you without all the extra-fancy writing. But that note you left that you thought upset me was kind of hot, and I liked that, too. Hope that doesn’t upset_ you.
> 
> _Thanks again for brunch. Hope you haven’t given up on me yet._

It was difficult to process everything he felt at once.

Relief: It had indeed been a misunderstanding. Her lack of reply had nothing to do with him, and he hadn’t driven her away by leaving additional notes. All was well.

Satisfaction: She’d gone to brunch and loved it. He felt as though he’d taken her on a successful date, even though he hadn’t even been there.

Sympathy: Her father had been stricken with illness. She must have been terrified if a “return to normalcy” was so necessary.

Embarrassment: He’d been whinging over her lack of reply and obsessing about how the lack of notes was affecting him, while she was home with her family dealing with an emergency—a life-or-death emergency as far as he was concerned.

Curiosity: She’d moved into the realm of the personal; he knew she had a father now, and that he lived close enough that she could have been gone and back between Thursday and Saturday.

Excitement: He’d turned her on. She was _admitting_ he’d turned her on, and almost challenging him to do it again. And he hadn’t even turned up his innuendo all the way.

And something else he could describe, but that struck him as he read the opening of the letter. _My Captain._

He needed to reply immediately. Her note was too monumental.

> _My Princess,_
> 
> _I can’t even begin to describe how relieved I am, or how ridiculous I feel. I’m so sorry about your father, and I’m glad to hear he’s okay. You were home trying to take care of your family, and I was here getting all put out that I had to wait a few days for a note and taking it way too personally. I’m really sorry. I’m glad you liked brunch; that’s seriously one of my favorite restaurants, and I can’t ever resist recommending it to people._
> 
> _Okay, with that out of the way—_
> 
> _I really should apologize to you, not for bothering you, but for even suggesting that I_ stop _bothering you. And when I say “bothering” you, I, of course, mean leaving you feeling flustered and grinning, with your breathing shallow and your pupils dilated. I’ve only admired you from afar, but you’d have great difficulty convincing me that you aren’t a vision when you’re aroused._
> 
> _How’d I do, love?_
> 
> _Welcome home,  
> _ _Your Captain_

Delivering the note, though, would have to wait. Just putting those words to paper, and thinking about how to _really_ get her hot and bothered had the unintended side effect of getting _him_ just as worked up as he hoped to get her. He was still dressed for the fitness center, and his erection was lifting up the fabric of his shorts quite comically. His arousal, along with the fact that he hadn’t yet showered after a brutal workout, required a slight delay.

Within moments, he was in the shower, leaning against the tiles, grasping his cock and imagining all of what he’d written to her. He thought of the selfie she’d left him earlier in the week, and how badly he wanted to reach into the photo and pull the top down further, to watch her nipples harden under his fingers, to hear her make tiny gasps and moans. He could see her eyes, black with arousal and hooded, watching him as he explored her body.

He came with a grunt.

As he came down from his high and began the mundane process of cleansing himself, he felt a creeping discomfort. While she had made it clear that she’d enjoyed the sexual overtones in his previous letters, what had seemed like a brilliant idea when he was still aroused now felt a little inappropriate. He dried off and reread her letter, noting her use of emphasis. In the end, it felt unlikely that after all this, she would back off without a word if she was disgusted. It felt worth the risk.

_My Captain._

Absolutely worth the risk. Under the mat it went.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took me till late in the evening to get this chapter up! Long day at work. Let me know what you think!


	4. Chapter Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content note: This chapter contains mild sexual content.

Killian was relieved to see Swan’s note the next morning; even if she’d found his previous note improper, she was at least _telling_ him so. He hesitated before opening it during lunch—what if she was planning to return the favor? He had no intention of using the office bathroom for masturbatory purposes, even if he could get away with it, and the thought of riding out an unwanted erection when he needed to meet with a client in an hour was distasteful.

But in the end, curiosity won out.

> _My Captain,_
> 
> _I hope you’re fucking happy because it’s pretty rude to get a girl riled up and fail to follow through. If I wanted to go to bed unsatisfied, there are plenty of guys I’ve dated who’d be up to the task._
> 
> _(Basically, it was hot, now I’m horny, good job there, but damn I’m horny, you asshole.)_
> 
> _I know you’re not going to read this till Monday and I don’t want to return the favor while you’re maybe working (are you working?). So, I don’t know, maybe let me know when you’re home and when I get home, I’ll do another note? So you don’t have to wait till morning for the next one? Or is it just weird that I’m even suggesting this?_
> 
> _What did you do this weekend besides apparently worry a lot about me being upset with you? Besides convincing my dad to listen to doctors’ orders, calming my mom, and trying to help while also staying out of the way, not much went on with me. I’m happy to be home, and even happy to have work tomorrow (or today, I guess, but I’m writing this on Sunday, so tomorrow)._

 

> _Dearest Swan,_
> 
> _I’d love to pretend that I did not spend a great deal of the weekend in quite a panic, but I fear lying to you in an attempt to protect my masculinity and fragile ego would be a mistake. My weekend was otherwise uneventful; I tidied up, engaged in various health-and-fitness-related activities, and did some light reading. And some heavy reading; I prefer not to do any work when I’m home, but usually, it catches up with me anyway._
> 
> _I would absolutely be amenable to an inappropriate reply from you, and welcome your attempts to leave me as frustrated as I left you last night. I hope I don’t make you uncomfortable by suggesting that perhaps you could have handled your frustration? I’m sure this is not a foreign concept to you, given that you are an adult with no readily apparent misgivings about basic sexuality. But then again, I can only assume that a woman who practically challenges me to provide some erotica is playing with fire because she hopes to get burned a little._
> 
> _I will be careful not to think_ too _much about your revenge; as you guessed, I_ am _at work as I write this. I tend to read your morning letters while I take a break for lunch. Though I am typically alone, with some degree of privacy, I do very much appreciate that you are refraining from writing me anything particularly filthy for me to read during the day._
> 
> _Your suggestion is excellent; I will be sure to check your doormat again this evening for another note instead of waiting until the morning. And of course, feel free to indicate whether or not you’re expecting a similar note in reply, so that I don’t need to wait to repay the favor if you’re eager for it before bed._
> 
> _Looking forward to what you’re cooking up,  
>  _ _Your Captain_

 

> _My Captain,_
> 
> _Reading sounds fun. I should be better about reading, but I usually need to shut my brain off after a long day at work. Current guilty pleasure is_ Hell’s Kitchen _since apparently I love hearing Gordon Ramsay shout obscenities at people. Who knew I’d be into that?_
> 
> _Then again, who knew I’d be into reading a description of what you think I look like when I’m horny? It was pretty surprising how much your letter affected me, and after reading it, I decided to check and see if you were right. My breathing was definitely a bit shallow, and I checked the mirror to see that my pupils were totally dilated._
> 
> _But you should think long and hard about some other details you missed. There were quite a few, although I should clarify: I could only see them once I took off all my clothing._
> 
> _Swan_
> 
> _PS: UGH I AM NOT GOOD AT THIS BUT I WANTED TO GET YOU BACK SO BADLY._

He chuckled, but either she wasn’t as terrible as she thought she was, or it had been long enough since his last tryst that his body didn’t care all that much about quality. He didn’t desperately need to get off, but his cock was stirring to life as he thought about how hard her nipples would be when she was aroused, and just how wet she might become.      

> _My Swan,_
> 
> _You’re certainly not terrible at it. Your goal was to leave me aroused and unsatisfied, and here I am, in such a state, imagining those signs of arousal that would be hidden under your clothing. It’s going to take some time, and some serious concentration on some decidedly_ not _sexy topics, before I can deliver my reply. It would be bad form to roam around our building’s hallways with an erection. Might scare the children._
> 
> _I confess that I do not watch any sort of reality television, but I’m intrigued. I wasn’t aware of the existence of such a show. Perhaps I will catch an episode or two and report back on whether or not I also enjoy watching Chef Ramsay verbally eviscerating people. Any other shows or films you might recommend? I’d love to know more about some of your favorite media._
> 
> _You weren’t clear on whether or not you expected a return favor, by the way, so I will take the lack of clear indication as a negative. Feel free to make requests in the future if I’m not offering often enough. Meanwhile, I may take a cold shower before delivering this missive._
> 
> _Riled up, as expected,  
>  _ _Your Captain_

Somehow, even when there were no plans for any mild (or moderate) sexual innuendo, two letters a day became the norm. He wished there were ways to increase the frequency, and she felt the same— _Maybe new anonymous email accounts?_ she’d suggested, before nixing the idea in her next letter. _Never mind. I’m already distracted enough with a couple letters a day. I think I’d be useless if you could just email me at work whenever you wanted to._

He was a bit relieved that she’d been the one to make that decision. In response to the initial suggestion, he’d agreed it was worth looking into, and he _did_ wish they could exchange messages more often. But there was something special to him about leaving notes. It was an intimacy that would be lost over electronic correspondence, and he also worried that the loss of anticipation would be detrimental.

He wasn’t quite there _yet_ in terms of his apprehensions. Yes, he was excited to see a return message from her, and he always enjoyed writing decidedly naughty messages to make her squirm (and squirming when he read _her_ inappropriate ones). And he absolutely wanted to keep the exchanges going. But the thought of taking things a step further, breaking out of the realm of quirky fantasy and into that of the mundane, was uncomfortable.

He was feeling things, that was for sure. But he wasn’t sure an inbox notification would have the same effect as the little bit of yellow peeking out from beneath a doormat.

And so the letters continued. Sometimes, sexy, sometimes sweet, sometimes longer or shorter. But always worth looking forward to.

> _Captain,_
> 
> _I finally watched_ Spellbound. _I thought it was all right! Don’t be offended—I liked it. But it’s definitely not my favorite Hitchcock. Old-timey psychology just doesn’t quite work for me, even if romantic Gregory Peck does. The ending was pretty great, though._
> 
> _I don’t know which laundry room you use, but in mine, someone left their clothing in the washing machine for an_ hour _before picking it up. I finally moved it so I could get a load in before the “curfew,” and when I came back to move it to a dryer, there was a note on the machine that told me I was rude for moving their clothes. As if it’s_ not _rude to leave your clothes in the machine forever and ever when everyone knows we don’t have enough machines._
> 
> _If you’re the one who left the note (because I know how much you love leaving notes), then bad form, Captain. Bad form. Apologize. Although I don’t think it was you because it looked like a woman’s handwriting and the note was written on the back of a flier for an elementary school raffle. But, hey, you never know._
> 
> _Her royal highness_

 

> _Swan,_
> 
> _Actually, I_ have _already seen_ Legally Blonde _, so you’ll have to pick another movie to have me watch. Although not the sequel, please. I looked it up online and it looks terrible, and I was under the impression you were fond of me and would never torture me like that._
> 
> _Have you read anything by Jasper Fforde? I don’t know how much you’d like his work, but based on what you’ve told me, it’s worth giving him a shot. If you’re not up for visiting the library, I can leave you a copy of one of his books with my next note._
> 
> _Do you have a car? I’ve just bought a new one for the first time, and I can’t quite figure out the unspoken rules of the parking garage here. Serves me right for thinking I need a vehicle of my own in Boston of all places. But as I get older, the prospect of sitting on the T every damn day to get anywhere becomes less palatable._
> 
> _Yours always,  
>  _ _Your Captain_

 

> _My Captain,_
> 
> _I’m still so exhausted from going out last night. I thought this was the time of everyone’s lives when bar hopping was supposed to be invigorating, not draining. I demand to know who lied to me. Or am I already an old fuddy-duddy? Oh god, I am, aren’t I?_
> 
> _I’m halfway through_ Watchmen. _It’s great so far. Are you almost done with_ The Princess Bride _yet? I can’t believe you’d never read it and had only seen the movie!_
> 
> _No reading for me tonight, though. I’m just going to relax on my bed and maybe watch some bad TV. Just stretch out a bit, and maybe take my clothes off to make sure I’m not feeling confined or restricted in any way. Sometimes, when I’m alone, my hands just drift when I’m not paying attention. Maybe to my breasts; they’ve always been_ so _sensitive. Sometimes, I come just from having them kneaded and suckled. Or maybe I just play between my legs a little. I’m not even thinking about it, and it just happens. Sometimes, it’s a non-issue, but sometimes, I definitely end up working up quite a sweat unexpectedly. I think tonight, I might do that on purpose. What better way to relax?_
> 
> _Do not disturb,  
>  _ _Your Swan_

 

> _My beautiful princess,_
> 
> _If I see another Black Friday ad, I might have to leave the country. What_ is _it with this made-up sale holiday? I loathe it._
> 
> _In answer to your earlier question, it would be considered a houseboat. It’s a yacht, but that probably brings to mind a lot of connotations regarding wealth. I’m not poor (obviously—I own a yacht), but the language makes me sound so much more glamorous than I am. And I only want to impress you with my wit, not my wealth. Although feel free to imagine me wearing a monocle, perhaps gently swirling a martini in a cocktail glass. How terribly fancy I am, I’ll have you know._
> 
> _Anyway, my boat. It’s got everything you’d expect in terms of being able to live aboard: a washroom and toilet, a bedroom, a galley, and a sitting area. I’ve lived on it reasonably comfortably before, although I will say that if you ever decide to live on a boat for a few months, don’t do it during the winter in Boston. It’s no good._
> 
> _Let me know what you think of_ Bull Durham. _I watched it a few weeks ago with J; it’s an old favorite of ours. No rush to return it, since the baseball season has ended._
> 
> _I thought you’d appreciate that I ended up eating some Cap’n Crunch the other day. The only way I was able to make it through the bowl was to think of how proud you’d be._
> 
> _Always the survivor,  
>  _ _Your Captain_

 

> _My Captain,_
> 
> _How dare you introduce this recipe into my life? I can’t afford to double my time in the fitness center or I won’t have time to write you all these letters! What made you think giving me your patented macaroni and cheese recipe would be a good idea? You are a life ruiner._
> 
> _I don’t know if you drove in today or took the T, but oh my GOD. I thought the ride in was bad, but the car I was in on the way home was super crowded, and there were some bros having the bro-iest conversation I think I’ve ever had to experience. If I try to recall exactly what they said, my brain might melt out my ears, so I won’t bother._
> 
> _That’s cool that your friend is a librarian—it explains why you have good book recommendations. My sister teaches the fourth grade, so often the only book recommendations I get are things like_ Little House on the Prairie. _Which, don’t get me wrong, is a great book, but I’m twenty-eight years old now, so maybe not a great recommendation for me right now. I’m glad to hear that you liked_ The Princess Bride _; do you think you liked the book or the movie better? Explain your argument in detail._
> 
> _Insert witty closing here,  
>  _ _Your Swan_

 

> _My Swan,_
> 
> _Ask and ye shall receive. When I know that my last letter has left you wanting but not sated, I always resolve to ensure yours has the same effect. Namely, if you’ve had to go to bed unsatisfied, I do as well. Sometimes, it’s quite painful, wanting so badly to have some sort of relief, and I have to avoid making it worse by imagining how frustrated I must leave you. I imagine you wriggling on your bed, shutting your eyes and trying to think of anything except the building need between your thighs._
> 
> _Sometimes, though, especially if you’ve hinted that you’ve enjoyed your own climax, I can let my imagination run wild. I wonder how much you enjoy having this sort of control over my body from afar, and if it arouses you to know what you’re able to do to me with a few simple words and mental images._
> 
> _I hope it does. I hope you’re beginning to flush and throb. I hope your breathing is becoming shallow and irregular. I hope that, if you are indeed wearing anything, that you recognize a load of laundry might be in your near future._
> 
> _Very much yours,  
>  _ _Your Captain_

A curious thing was happening, he found, as their exchanges continued. For one, he was sleeping better than he ever had; nightmares that had plagued him for years (of Liam’s death, of Milah calling off the relationship) ceased nearly entirely. Most of the time, his dreams were vague, indescribably things that evaporated as soon as he woke up. But occasionally—and truly, such wonderful occasions they were—he dreamt of Swan.

Sometimes, his dreams were mundane, involving waking up beside her and hearing her complain about having to get up early, something he knew from her letters that she disliked immensely. Sometimes, his baser urges seemed to be in charge, and he would dream of caressing her soft skin and feeling her envelope him, body and soul.

But his favorite dreams of his Princess were the ones in which he experienced the tension and terror of revealing his identity to her; as he drank his morning coffee, he would think back on the emotions that had coursed through his dream self as dream Swan had leapt into his arms and kissed him for the first time.

But his sleep and dreams weren’t all that had changed. He found himself aboard the _Jolly_ more frequently, sometimes after work or on weekends. For the longest time, just being on his ship in chilly weather was enough to turn his mood sour, but now, he found he could enjoy the solitude and fresh air, even if he wasn’t up for a sail. On workdays, he would drop off a note for Swan before driving out to the marina; he couldn’t bear to make her wait for his letter.

It wasn’t that he needed space from her—he didn’t. It was more about rediscovering a part of himself that he thought he’d lost years ago. The _Jolly Roger_ was so important to him, and yet for years, it was tainted with so many terrible memories. Now, at least, he could sit and relax aboard her and just enjoy the simple pleasure of relaxing on his beloved ship.

His friends all noticed that something was different. Belle was the only person he felt comfortable sharing details with, and she of course did not know everything (he would happily take some of the details of the dirtier letters to his grave). But she sometimes asked questions (“How is she doing?”) or mentioned Swan in some way (after a particular absurd game of Hearts between the four of them, Belle suggested he relate the story to her). It made him feel a little less strange and lonely than he had at the beginning of the written interaction.

Graham was a little amused, but more bemused; of all three of Killian’s friends, he seemed to understand the least why Killian didn’t just call off the letters already. Killian found _that_ amusing, given that it was Graham’s recommendation of the dating site and messaging before meeting that had inspired Killian’s communication method. But at the very least, Graham was supportive; he simply thought it was odd.

Jefferson was as supportive as one might expect, and in his own particular way. He teased Killian when they were together, and when they weren’t, he’d occasionally send a mocking text. _So have you banged her yet you bloody wanker_ was a personal favorite for Killian, but he also enjoyed, _got a letter today from insurance agent, u think shes into me_

Had it been any other person besides Jefferson, or if he hadn’t known Jeff as well as he did, this behavior might have been off-putting or even harassing. But this was Jefferson, his best mate since they were assigned as roommates their first year of college, whose wedding he’d been best man in, and whose daughter was like a niece to him. And Jeff _was_ capable of being serious when necessary, and would back down if Killian (or Graham or Belle) were hurt or irritated by his comments.

He could feel all of them, however, dancing around a subject he knew they were intensely curious about: just how serious _was_ this? But it was the wrong question to ask, even if they drummed up the courage. What they _should_ have been wondering, Killian thought ruefully, was whether or not he even _knew_ what sort of name to put to “this” in the first place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for the moving comments about With Affection! I'm so glad I decided to write this story. I'd love to know your thoughts on this chapter.


	5. Chapter Five

American Thanksgiving was very likely Killian’s least favorite holiday except for Christmas, though at least Christmas had _formerly_ been enjoyable. He had lived in the States for fifteen years, and had even been a citizen for a few years now (though he loathed that, without Milah and her husband’s power and connections, it would have taken him much longer to become a permanent resident in the first place). And yet Thanksgiving irked him, partially due to the horrific genocide the holiday celebrated, and partially due to the frenzied and obsessive Christmas shopping, a full month in advance.

It was also frustrating, given the holiday’s intense family focus, that he had no one to spend the day with. Graham, being one of the few non-Americans in his department, always volunteered to work on Thanksgiving, so that his American colleagues could have time off with their families. Jefferson and Grace were always in Connecticut, visiting her grandparents; Jeff had actually been gone since Tuesday and had left the hat shop in the hands of his capable assistant, Alice. And while Belle had been free to spend time with him in years past, she was occupied this time around; Elsa was hosting a small get-together at their apartment, and Belle could hardly decline an invitation to an event in her own home.

And this year, to his dismay (but not surprise), the holiday would be even more disappointing than usual.

> _O Captain my Captain,_
> 
> _I’m heading home Wednesday night for Thanksgiving. I should be back by Sunday night at the latest. We’ll see, though; my brother-in-law has been hinting that he wants to leave early to visit his mom, in which case I might be back by Friday. Are you sticking around for Thanksgiving, or traveling?_
> 
> _This is awkward, but I feel weird not talking to you for a few days. Seriously, man, look what you’re doing to me._
> 
> _Swan_

He smiled sadly to himself. It _was_ strange, spending a few days without speaking; that hadn’t happened since her father’s heart attack.

It was strange as well, he realized, that the thought of not speaking to one particular person for even such a short period of time was so discomfiting. Jefferson, Graham, and Belle were the closest he had to family, and while he frequently did _not_ go a day without speaking to at least one of them, there had been plenty of occasions where he’d gone several days without speaking with any of them.

So, why was this any different?

He unfolded the second sheet of paper that had been left inside the main note. It was another printed selfie, of Swan wearing an exaggerated expression that was clearly meant to indicate misery. Underneath, she’d scrawled, _See? Seriously, look what you’re doing to me._

He wished he could telepathically influence her brother-in-law to ensure her early return. He immediately felt selfish—it would be the first visit she’d made to her parents’ home since her father’s heart attack. He should _want_ her to spend quality time with her family. And yet he wished she could do that and still keep him company. It was times like these that the anonymous email accounts would have been useful.

In the meantime, he’d need to wish her goodbye, and answer her questions.

> _My Princess,_
> 
> _What little family I’ve got left is a six hour flight away and they don’t like me very much. So while I’ve got time off for Thanksgiving, I’ll be here._
> 
> _I absolutely agree with you; I don’t wish to go so many days without talking to you. For the first time, you’ve actually caused me to dread upcoming vacation time. Look what I’m doing to you? Look what you’re doing to_ me, _love._
> 
> _I’ll just have to keep my fingers crossed that your brother-in-law follows through and returns you to my (metaphorical) arms on Friday. In the meantime, have a lovely holiday with your family, and you can be assured that I shall be thinking of you._
> 
> _Your Captain_

 

> _Captain—_
> 
> _Is it terrible that I’m kind of hoping that I’m back by Friday night, too? I haven’t seen my parents since my dad’s heart attack, so you’d think I’d want to spend as much time with them as possible. But even though they’ve renovated the house and expanded it (I even get my own room now—score!), it just feels like I’m always a bit underfoot. And having my own room isn’t the same thing as having privacy._
> 
> _And I don’t know, I guess there’s this guy that I really like talking to, and I don’t want to go half a week without talking to him. I’m a gal with her priorities in order._
> 
> _I will miss you, but I’ll be back soon._
> 
> _Happy holidays,  
> _ _Your Princess_

Killian arrived home Wednesday afternoon and stared longingly at Swan’s doormat, _sans_ yellow paper, before heading into his own flat. A strange feeling he couldn’t quite name was twisting his insides, and he was glad that it was much too early for dinner anyway. At a loss regarding what to do with himself (had letters from Swan truly become _this_ crucial to his routine?), he headed down to the fitness center. Perhaps he could work up an appetite.

He couldn’t. He resorted to a protein bar and a glass of juice before calling it a night early, falling asleep around eight o’clock with Swan’s copy of _Good Omens_ still in his hand.

He awoke on Thanksgiving with a growling stomach, which was to be expected. Typically, when he had the day off work, he enjoyed making a substantial breakfast, but he was still feeling quite under the weather, at least in terms of his mood. And with how little he’d eaten the day before, especially after exercising, he needed something that wouldn’t take extraordinary amounts of preparation: he settled for scrambled eggs and toast.

As he ate, he mulled over possible plans for the day. His lovely Princess indicated she enjoyed spending holidays in bed watching television, but while he might enjoy such an activity occasionally, especially in the presence of such a lovely companion, it was too likely that today, he’d simply end up brooding. He needed a true distraction, where he could get his mind off of Swan’s absence.

Heading to the _Jolly_ was an option, but not the most attractive one. It was now cold enough that sitting on deck wasn’t terribly relaxing, and he wasn’t interested in dealing with any holiday traffic, either on the streets or on the train.

He went to his desk in the little office alcove and opened his laptop. Perhaps he could be productive; he could imagine how impressed Spencer would be when he arrived on Monday with so much done. After all, during the extended holiday, the other associates would be spending time with their families and wouldn’t have as much time to get ahead in their casework. Soon, he was able to push Swan to the edges of his mind (it would be impossible, of course, to push her out entirely) and make some progress with his work.

He was extremely focused when the phone rang; he answered without bothering to check the caller ID. “Killian Jones.”

“How formal!”

“Oh, Belle! Is everything all right?”

“Of course. Are you free tonight?”

He chuckled. “I am. Why?”

She sighed, and he heard rustling. “Don’t laugh.” Her voice was a bit muffled. Was she trying to avoid being overheard? “Remember the date Elsa tried to set me up on?”

“Kristoff? Darling, you _do_ remember that I know the fellow.”

“Right, well _anyway_ , he and Anna are an item right now, and Anna wants to return the favor by setting Elsa up with someone.”

His heart sank. “I’m not that someone, am I?”

“I _tried_ to tell her no, but she told Elsa that we should invite you, and Elsa was appalled that you were spending the holiday alone.”

“I take it Elsa is unaware of her sister’s ulterior motive?”

“She has no idea. But obviously, you don’t have to try to flirt with her.” She paused. “Well, I guess you don’t have to _really_ flirt with her. I know how you’re incapable of avoiding _some_ innuendo.”

“I can control myself, love.” He sighed and looked at the clock; it was already three in the afternoon. “Will you be terribly disappointed if I beg off?”

“Only a little, because I know you’re alone. And your neighbor isn’t home.”

How on earth could she have known? “What makes you say that?”

“You answered your phone the way you always do when you’re totally engrossed in your work. You wouldn’t have thrown yourself in it so deeply if you were waiting on a letter. Besides, you’ve mentioned she’s American, so I would assume she has plans on such an American holiday.”

He scratched the back of his ear with his free hand. “What time should I arrive?”

He could hear her smile on the other end. “Any time. We’re eating around five o’clock and we’ve got plenty of food.”

The T was hell getting there (although driving would have been worse), but Killian arrived promptly at five o’clock with a bottle of wine; he was relieved he’d had a bottle stashed in his liquor cabinet he hadn’t opened yet. He greeted Belle warmly before politely doing the same with Elsa, who was in the kitchen, getting ready to serve the meal. Her face showed none of what he would consider the telltale markers of interest; if she suspected that he was supposed to be a potential paramour, she didn’t let on.

Kristoff and his girlfriend the matchmaker were in the dining room. It was good to see his sometime associate, who introduced him to Anna. Her eyes sparkled with barely contained glee; she was probably thrilled that the man she thought might sweep Elsa off her feet was reasonably attractive. Well, more than reasonably attractive. Devilishly handsome seemed much more accurate.

Not that it mattered. Even if not for Swan, Killian had no intention of pursuing Elsa Agnarson. Besides his complete lack of interest, she was his dear friend’s roommate. Engaging in a one-night stand with her would be the epitome of bad form.

And then, of course, there _was_ Swan.

But … what _was_ there with Swan?

He was pensive throughout the meal, which had the dual effect of making him a mediocre guest, which was embarrassing, and nixing Anna’s attempts to engage him in very directed conversations with Elsa, which was not. Belle continued to throw him concerned glances from across the table, while Kristoff carried on pleasantly with Elsa and whoever else spoke up. He continued to take sips of wine. What on earth was the matter with him? It wasn’t even as though he could really even name what he was feeling, or pin down what he was thinking.

After the meal, Kristoff made his excuses (something about needing to feed his dog, Sven); Anna gave him quite the goodbye kiss before heading into the kitchen to help Elsa clean up. Killian tried to offer his assistance, but he was quickly shooed out by the sisters; Belle joined him in the living room shortly thereafter, holding additional glasses of wine. They were far enough away from the kitchen that, even in such a small apartment, they couldn’t be overheard over the sisters’ own conversation and the sounds of running water.

“What’s going on, Killian?” She handed him one of the glasses.

He took a generous sip as she sat beside him. “I don’t know.”

“Is it work? I know you were busy before you came over, but I thought—”

“No, it’s not. Don’t worry about that. You haven’t taken me away from anything important.”

She smiled sympathetically. “Your neighbor?” He didn’t reply, but clearly, his body language gave him away. “What’s been going on? I thought everything was fine.”

He sighed heavily. “It _is_ fine. We talk every day. It’s lovely. Still haven’t met up yet.” Saying it aloud felt absurd. What sort of grown man shared notes for an entire month with a woman he fancied, and didn’t make the move to meet in person? And, of course, what sort of grown man shared notes for an entire month with a woman he fancied in the first place?

“How do you feel about that?” Belle had spent years in therapy after her broken engagement, and it was times like this that it showed. But he supposed he’d humor her; it wasn’t a bad question.

“Uncertain.” He leaned back and took another sip of wine. “I can’t really imagine how it would feel to have this sort of relationship off paper at this point. As though losing the magic of anonymity and being forced to be physical—even non-sexually—would change how I feel.”

“It does seem very romantic, getting notes from a secret admirer,” Belle said kindly. “Does she want to meet?”

“Last I checked,” he admitted. “I’ve been avoiding the subject religiously. She suggested anonymous email accounts a couple weeks ago and I was relieved when she changed her mind.”

“Why? I mean, why did she change her mind?”

“She said she would get too distracted if I could contact her more frequently than I already do. So, not the same reason I was relieved, but I’ll take it.”

Belle pursed her lips. “Killian, I don’t know how long this could be sustainable. She’s going to want to meet sooner rather than later. She’s not going to want to fall in love with a stranger.”

“This isn’t about falling in love,” he replied, suddenly irritated. Who was Belle to give romantic advice? “I just know that if we meet now … I just can’t even imagine.” He was glad that he’d eaten lightly; even the small portions he’d taken suddenly felt too large for his stomach. He took a gulp of wine.

“Fine, fine.” She held up a hand defensively. “I’m sorry. You know I’ll support you, whatever you choose to do. I just hate to see you unhappy.”

“And you think I’m unhappy?”

“Belle, do you mind tossing the table cloth into my hamper?” Elsa called out from the kitchen.

“No problem!” She turned back to Killian as she stood up from the couch. “I think you’re unhappy right now because you miss her. I don’t think this is as simple as you thought it was. Not that it’s a bad thing.” But she declined to clarify, instead heading into the dining room to take care of her assigned chore.

Killian left shortly after that, all offers of assistance refused, unwilling to overstay his welcome.

He _did_ miss Swan. He’d known that would be the case, but even so, how _much_ he missed her was unprecedented. How could he feel so empty and lethargic when she had been gone hardly a day?

Could this be more than he’d insisted to Belle that it was? Was she right?

Things were going _well,_ but he and Swan were still in the process of learning about each other. He did know that she loved hot cocoa with cinnamon and bad television, and that she had three favorite books she reread at least once a year. He knew she had a mother, a father, a sister, and a brother-in-law, and that she was local to New England.

But he still had no idea what she did for a living, except that she had coworkers and a direct supervisor. He had no idea what her romantic history looked like at all, and whether she was even interested in a committed relationship. While he knew she wanted to meet in person (although she hadn’t expressed that desire since her father’s heart attack), he wasn’t sure if she wanted to meet up for a _first date_ type situation, or for a single night of passion, or if she wanted to pursue something more serious.

And what of his own apprehensions? So long as he still felt this fear (dare he name it as such? Was he a coward?) when he thought of proposing a meeting, he knew it was not yet time to meet.

But, bloody hell, did he miss her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this update was delayed! I was away for the weekend and just got home this evening. For those of you who were curious, yes! Most of the letters in the last chapter were new ones. I hope you enjoyed them.


	6. Chapter Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content note: This chapter contains explicit sexual content.

Killian awoke Friday morning with the dull headache that followed a night drinking red wine, and the stress of wondering when his princess would be home. He checked her previous letter again: would her brother-in-law follow through and insist on ending Swan’s trip home early? He damn well hoped so.

In spite of his headache, he donned his gym gear, filled his water bottle, and pushed himself through a short morning workout. There was no reason to be lazy while Swan was away, and besides, it gave him the opportunity—twice—to check her doormat. Sadly, there was no telltale yellow paper sticking out from underneath the doormat. She clearly hadn’t arrived home.

He showered and attempted to continue getting ahead on his casework. But it was only a few moments before he found himself giving in, opening a new document. He didn’t consider himself unusually superstitious, but he _was_ a seafaring man _and_ a baseball fan; some amount of superstition came with both territories. He imagined that Swan might be glad to arrive home to find a note waiting for her, but there was the chance that the act of leaving her a note would mystically delay her homecoming.

No, he reminded himself. Such forces _clearly_ did not exist. He was being irrational. It was far better to welcome her home appropriately than it was to refuse on the grounds that his actions would somehow magically affect her brother-in-law’s mindset.

> _My dearest Princess,_
> 
> _I hope that you had a wonderful Thanksgiving with your family. What delicious food did you eat? Any family traditions? Any horribly awkward moments with racist uncles? (I don’t really celebrate Thanksgiving, given my situation, but I hear that often the holiday involves keeping your mouth shut as older family members say incredibly offensive things; please correct me if I’m wrong.)_
> 
> _I’ve spent the past couple of days thinking about you and missing you. I’m happy to tell you exactly how much, if you’d like. One word from you, and I’ll describe it in every detail._
> 
> _Damn it, Swan, I really do miss you. I’ve put out this note on Friday afternoon, hoping very much that my impatience somehow causes the balance of the universe to shift slightly in my favor and deposit you back in your apartment by the end of the evening. If instead, I’ve jinxed the whole situation and you do not return until Sunday, perhaps I will replace this note. I haven’t decided yet; I’d hate for you to blame me for invoking Murphy’s law, but at the same time, I can tell you’ve no patience for people who would lie about jinxing a situation._
> 
> _But, my god, Swan, I hope you’re back before Sunday. It’s already been excruciating. I’m practically dying over here, desperately missing you. I have problems._
> 
> _With tremendous affection,  
> _ _Your Captain_

He truly did have problems. It was difficult to concentrate on his work, but now he had _no_ excuses for checking on the status of the note under the doormat. If she had arrived home, she would need time to reply, and if she hadn’t, then he’d be wasting his time checking. He set a timer, resolving to give himself an hour with no distractions before letting his mind wander back to Swan.

One hour turned into two and a half, his work finally engaging him enough to keep him occupied. The Tillman case was a frustrating one, with two absentee parents fighting for custody over two children. He was frequently handed cases with similar custody issues; he suspected that Spencer was aware of his personal history and expected someone like him would be more invested in achieving the best possible outcome.

It was probably true, but it proved to be a double-edged sword; sometimes, Killian felt that the parent he represented was _not_ well-suited for the degree of custody they sought. As a result, he sometimes was passed over for cases where that might be a possibility, and if he had to work with such a client, he spent a great deal of time using his legal acumen and way with words to ensure that the best outcome for the children involved was also what the client believed to be the most desirable one.

At least the Tillman case didn’t have that issue—he truly believed his client was the more suitable parent—although it was proving to be difficult anyway.

By mid-afternoon, he felt confident that he’d earned some relaxation for the rest of the day, which of _course_ meant immediately checking the hallway. To his relief and delight, there was yellow paper waiting for him. Swan was home. He would have to thank her brother-in-law … figuratively.

> _My desperately lonely Captain,_
> 
> _Clearly, your plan worked; I just got home, even earlier than I’d expected. My Thanksgiving was very nice—just a meal with my parents, my sister, and her husband. No racist uncles or anything! We do have one family tradition: we watch_ Planes, Trains & Automobiles. _It’s the law._
> 
> _I’ve really missed you, too, and I would love to hear exactly what you dreamt last night. I couldn’t do much dreaming myself, obviously. It would be_ really _embarrassing to wake up the whole household while moaning, “Oh_ Captain.” _It would be even worse if anyone tried to check on me and make sure I was okay; they’d probably find me spread out on the bed, with my hands in ridiculously inappropriate places. Maybe it wouldn’t be embarrassing, though, since I’d have to notice that I’d been caught to be embarrassed. And when I’m home and have all the privacy in the world? Like right now? I probably would be much too swept up in my activities to notice anything at all._  
> 
> _Happy holidays ;)  
> _ _Your Princess_
> 
> _PS: I didn’t want to throw this in with the sexy stuff, but my mom asked about you._

Good lord. He dropped down on his couch and stared at the paper in his hand. What a siren—he should _never_ have let on how vivid his visual imagination was. She delighted in taking advantage of that fact, as she was right now.

He could see her, spread out on the bed (his bed), atop the covers (his covers). Had she dared to sleep nude in her parents’ house? He begrudgingly imagined her in a tiny camisole and those miniscule shorts she sometimes wore to the gym.

But that somehow made his fantasy even more appealing. He imagined her breasts spilling out from the scrap of material that hardly deserved to be called a shirt, and one of her hands eagerly kneading at her chest. He set the letter aside and unzipped his jeans; Swan had the absurd ability to get him hard with almost minimal effort these days. And her other hand, he could easily imagine it shoved down the front of those shorts that were practically no more than underwear, frantically rubbing as she bucked her hips.

She was home now—was he simply fantasizing, or was he accurately envisioning her current activities?

No, he reasoned. She was waiting for him. She was waiting for him to give her something to _initiate_ those activities.

He could not remember the last time he’d ever been _this_ hard. Ever. There was no way he’d be able to meditate himself to a state decent enough to leave the apartment. Though he was no stranger to getting off after some of her letters, this was the first time that he felt such an overwhelming _need_ to do so.

Thank goodness he kept a box of tissues on the coffee table. It took less than a minute before he brought himself to climax, grunting out a curse as he caught as much of his release in the crumpled tissues as he could. He could imagine her smirking, knowing the effect she had on him. He quickly cleaned up, redid the fly of his jeans, and washed his hands before sitting down at his desk.

There was no way, after what she’d just done to him, that he was going to give her anything that merely _suggested_ she pleasure herself. He might not be there with her, but he knew just what he wanted to do with her.

> _My unbelievably naughty Princess,_
> 
> _It must have been very, very difficult for you to resist pleasuring yourself. But like you said, now, you’re in the privacy of your own home. It would be very, very easy to just slip off whatever top you’re wearing, and no one would be around to notice. Perhaps you should do just that._
> 
> _And your bra, my dear. While I’ve never seen your bare breasts, I’ve often dreamt of them, and if they are half as lovely as they are in my dreams, then it would be a shame to keep them hidden. And if they’re encased in fabric, it would be terribly difficult for you to cup them while gently circling your nipples with your thumbs._
> 
> _It would probably feel quite wonderful if you were to do just that, but it would probably be even more wonderful if you did that while imagining that those were_ my _hands. Imagine just how much I’d take my time, enjoying your gorgeous breasts, and listening to the little noises you’d make as I caressed them._
> 
> _And again, because you’re in the privacy of your own home, it would be easy to relax on your bed, and stroke your lovely breasts for several minutes, all while thinking about how much we both wish that I were the one doing just that. And because you have privacy, I would never need to know just_ how _long you might lie there, squeezing those perfect breasts, or pinching and pulling on your nipples._
> 
> _I suppose we should both drop this needless charade and quit pretending that you_ aren’t _splayed out on your bed like the wanton woman you are, positively dripping with need. In that case, I might have to insist that you reach down and give yourself a few feather-light strokes. I can guarantee that it will feel even better if you continue to tell yourself that it’s me who’s touching you._
> 
> _While I’d love for you to tease yourself for hours, until your mind became overwhelmed with need, it would be ungentlemanly for me to keep you waiting. And at this point, I’m sure that my ministrations (for you can tell yourself that it’s your hand, but we know that I’m really the one touching you) have gotten you extremely close to that desperately desired peak, and I can’t bring myself to deny you._
> 
> _So, my beautiful Princess, I want you to reach back down and let me make you come._

It was a testament to the intensity of the orgasm he’d just experienced, and his top-notch writing skills, how quickly he was able to write _exactly_ what he wanted to write. But this was entirely different from the letters they’d exchanged before. Would she be offended or disgusted by his directions? Was he officially entering lecherous territory?

Or would she respond the way he hoped, and enjoy the scenario he’d planned out for her? He began another note.

> _My dear Princess,_
> 
> _After reading your note, I had to take matters into my own hands, so to speak. And afterwards, it seemed as though it would be awfully bad form if you didn’t get to experience the same pleasure that I did. If you’re reading this note, then you either enjoyed the experience, or you’re just insatiably curious, but I hope it was the former._  

While he was at it, typing up a nonsexual response, he returned to the couch for her letter. Not everything in her letter had been designed to arouse him, after all. Her postscript caught his attention. Her mother had asked about him?

It wasn’t as though their correspondence was a secret; she knew his friends were aware of their communications, and vice versa (especially since he’d treated one of her friends to brunch). But it felt like a milestone that her _mother_ knew of their … interactions (what else could he call it?).

And by the way she had mentioned it, she clearly wanted him to inquire.

> _Speaking of curiosity, you’ve piqued my interest. You say your mother asked about me; I’m both excited and afraid to know how you answered her._
> 
> _Affectionately,  
> _ _Your Captain_

The second note had the benefit of ensuring that the second erection he’d begun to sport after writing the first note had subsided. He quickly printed both and shoved them into envelopes, quickly numbering the first one and scrawling a note on the second one. If she found herself disgusted by the first one, she would _certainly_ be uncomfortable knowing he’d come.

He tucked the notes under her doormat, slightly giddy with anticipation. But as he began to head back to his flat, he had to wonder just how hot she’d gotten herself writing the note she’d left for him. It would be bad form to leave her waiting any longer than she had to for his reply and return favor. Right?

Quickly, before he could change his mind and effectively chicken out, he knocked lightly on her door, before hurrying back to his flat before she could reach her own door. After a few minutes of anticipating a knock—if she’d managed to open her own door in time to see his close—he relaxed, his mission accomplished.

His refractory period was such that just thinking about what Swan would be doing, if she were indeed enjoying his letter, was causing his erection to come back to life. But he’d already taken his own pleasure; it was _her_ turn. If he was still aching for release later in the evening, he would take care of himself, but in the meantime, he tried to relax. He grabbed _Wolf Hall_ from the side table where he’d left it and immersed himself as deeply as possible into the political intrigue of sixteenth century England.

As evening approached, he checked his refrigerator and decided to order some sushi; as he returned from the elevator with his food in tow, he excitedly grabbed the note from under Swan’s doormat.

By the time he’d finished the letter, his appetite was gone.

> _My Captain,_
> 
> _You’re right that I would have read the second note anyway, but yes, I absolutely_ did _enjoy your first note. I didn’t think that I would find that experience as erotic as I did, but hey, you learn something new every day. Please please PLEASE do_ not _tell me whether or not you could hear me from your apartment. I’ll be mortified either way._
> 
> _I told my mom that you were very sweet. I told her a little about your interests, and I mentioned your boat (wouldn’t you have been so upset if I hadn’t?)._
> 
> _And she asked me why you and I haven’t met in person. And I wasn’t sure what to tell her._
> 
> _I know that we haven’t talked about it in a while. And I think you were right that it’s been incredibly enjoyable (in many ways, not just the way it was enjoyable tonight!) to get to know each other through these notes. But I’m starting to worry that we’re just going to keep putting notes under my doormat until one of us loses interest. And I kind of don’t want that to happen._
> 
> _And to be honest, I think you might feel the same way, too. I heard you knock when you left the note. Things are starting to escalate a bit, and not in a bad way. I just wish I understood why things have to stay this way. I know that tonight might have been even more incredible if you really_ had _been the one touching me. And that can’t happen if the most contact I have with you is you knocking on my door to leave a note._
> 
> _I’m not saying that it’s all or nothing. I can keep doing this for now, just not forever. I really actually for real_ like _you, okay?_
> 
> _Your Princess_

She wanted to meet. He should be thrilled. Ecstatic.

But he wasn’t.

It wasn’t as though he were _entirely_ displeased, of course. He’d feared that he’d been far too presumptuous (and perhaps even lecherous) with his latest letter, but in fact, she’d enjoyed his explicit instructions. And her desire to meet was obviously due to positive feelings towards him. She _liked_ him. For real, she insisted.

But what would it be like if they were to end their written relationship and begin a physical, face-to-face one? He could imagine the disappointment on her face as they both endured their anti-climactic first meeting. All of these feelings he’d been holding onto, like some sort of talisman, would fade away like fog in the sun.

But what next, then? His Swan pulled no punches: he was on the clock, and while the time on said clock was indeterminate, he’d be a fool to think it was more than a few weeks before she would lose her patience. And she _was_ being patient; even in her letter, she avoided any literary foot-stamping or finger-wagging regarding his behavior.

She simply wanted to meet, to take this delicate thing they shared and throw it against the wall to see if it would shatter or withstand such force.

He couldn’t.

Unlike the last time he’d replied to her request to meet, he was as honest as possible.

> _My Princess,_
> 
> _This is going to sound like a criticism of you, so please let me preface this with the insistence that this is a criticism of_ me _._
> 
> _I’m honestly scared that this isn’t real. I’m not afraid that you’ve been leading me on, or that you’re exaggerating your affections. Nor have I been dishonest with you about my own feelings and desires._
> 
> _The last time I let someone into my heart, it almost destroyed my life. Since then, I have not been in a relationship, and in the past couple of years, the number of casual dalliances I’ve engaged in have dwindled to none._
> 
> _When this all began, I thought that getting to know each other before truly meeting and dating would make it easier for me. You are a beautiful woman, and I did not want your beauty to lead me to treat you like just another woman I could bring into my bed. The notes were a way to establish a friendship first, but now things have changed._
> 
> _And now I’m just terrified that we’re going to meet, and all my walls will still be up. My beautiful Swan, I want to be able to let you into my heart as wholly as possible, so that I can’t hurt you by trying to close myself off to you._
> 
> _If you insist on meeting, then we will. I will not drag my feet or sigh at your relative impatience. If you want to meet, then we shall meet—and I_ want _to meet. I truly do. But I am not ready. When I’m ready, I swear to you, I will not delay._
> 
> _Yours truly,  
> _ _Your Captain_

Hopefully, he reasoned as he returned to his flat after delivering the missive, she would understand, and that she wouldn’t take it as personally as he worried she might. She certainly wasn’t the type to tolerate bullshit; in a lot of ways, it would make her an excellent attorney (and in a lot of ways, it would make her a poor one). And so while he did his best to ensure that she would know that this was about his own fears, and not her actions, he left the possibility of meeting open … but he desperately hoped she would not take it.

Her reply, which he picked up in the late hours of the night, unable to sleep, was one of the shortest he’d received from her since her father’s heart attack.

> _My Captain,_
> 
> _Thank you for being so honest with me. We’ll wait to meet until you’re ready, and I won’t harass you about it. I mean, I’m not sorry that I asked. But I am satisfied with your answer._
> 
> _I don’t exactly have the best track records with relationships either. So I understand what it feels like when you’re not ready. Maybe someday, I’ll understand what it feels like to_ be _ready, but that might be a pipe dream._
> 
> _I need to get some rest—an extremely long car ride, followed by what can only be described as an explosive orgasm will really take it out of ya. Get some sleep; we’ll talk tomorrow._
> 
> _Your Princess_

He chuckled weakly at her choice of words ( _explosive orgasm_ in particular). But her acceptance of his explanation seemed tentative, and the brief nature of the note left him wondering if she’d simply left a great deal of her feelings unsaid. He considered working on a reply, but her promise that they’d talk tomorrow, and the hopeless feeling of inadequacy that overwhelmed him, left him staring at an empty document for only a few moments before he gave up and returned to his bed in an attempt to get a few hours of shuteye.

He dreamt of Liam, and of that one sickening moment when he’d realized that the two boats were going to crush his hand. It was a moment that haunted him, not solely because he remembered the realization that he was about to possibly lose the appendage. No: it had been the moment in which it had occurred to him that his brother might not make it.

And he’d been right.

He awoke in a sweat, the memory of Liam disappearing into the water still floating in front of his eyes, even in the dark of his bedroom. When he finally could reduce his heart rate to a pace that would allow him to fall back asleep, it was nearly five o’clock in the morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd love to hear your thoughts!


	7. Chapter Seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a friendly reminder--if you're reading this story and you haven't already read With Affection, I really, really, really, highly, very much suggest/insist that you do. This isn't a sequel, since it takes place during the same time frame, but reading WA is necessary to really get the most out of this one.

The alarm was an unwelcome sound, the most obnoxious ringtone the phone had to offer. Killian was an early riser by nature, almost never requiring anything besides his internal clock to rouse him whenever he planned to wake each and every morning. It was rare for him to sleep to the point where the alarm sounded. On workdays, the alarm was an emergency measure to ensure he wouldn’t be late to the office, and on weekends, it was a never-used fail safe just in case he’d had too much to drink the evening before and slept the day away.

Never-used, that is, until today. Lack of sleep left him feeling foggy and congested, and the fact that it was nearly ten in the morning (a solid hour later than he ever preferred to sleep on a weekend) wasn’t enough to rouse him entirely. Feeling sorry for himself, and justifying the action due to his sleepless night, he shut off his alarm and attempted to fall back asleep.

He wasn’t sure how long he slept before his phone rang.

“Hello?”

“Hey, are you free on the eleventh?” It was Graham.

“Um, I don’t know. I’ll check my calendar and get back to you.”

“Wait, did you just wake up?”

“No.”

“Shit, I’m sorry.” The lie clearly didn’t take. “Is everything okay?”

“Yeah, just a shit night; I’m not feeling terribly well. What’s on the eleventh exactly?”

He could hear Graham turning red, if such a thing were possible. “Uh, well, there’s a movie coming out that Merida’s been looking forward to. Opens on the eleventh. She suggested that I invite you guys. She wants to meet you.”

“Bloody hell, that’s fantastic.”

“Don’t get too excited. Anyway, let me know if you can make it.”

“Will do. Later, mate.”

He was appalled at how late it was when he ended the call and finally looked at the clock on his phone. It was nearly noon; he hadn’t slept so late in over a decade. And now he recalled why: he was absurdly groggy, and his head was pounding. Sleeping late made him feel quite shitty. He stumbled out of bed and into the kitchen, fumbling blindly with the coffee maker until he recognized the sounds it made while producing coffee. In the meantime, a shower would be necessary to return him to the realm of the living.

As the water hit his chest, still a tad cold, he groaned, remembering just _why_ he’d slept so poorly.

Perhaps he should stop worrying so much and take her letter purely at face value: she was satisfied for now, just not _forever._ Of course. After all, this wasn’t a forever-style arrangement, and he’d never intended it to be one. It was temporary, just until he could be sure of his feelings. How much longer would that take?

Best not to think about it.

His coffee, sweetened with a little too much half-and-half, helped clear his head, and he took stock of his flat. In his despondency over Swan’s absence, he’d permitted himself some sloppiness, leaving out dishes and shucking some of his clothes in the living room instead of the hamper. He quickly straightened up, and as he did so, he realized that if he was going to get laundry done over the weekend, today was his best shot. Hopefully, enough people would still be traveling for the holiday, or hosting their families, leaving the laundry room free—or free enough that he could at least find one available machine. He quickly grabbed his laundry basket and detergent and kicked on his house slippers before making his way to the laundry room.

He pushed open the door to find the room entirely deserted, save for one person.

And she was shaking her hips back and forth as she loaded a washer; even in sweatpants, her arse was lovely.

She turned around when she heard the door, and her face immediately flushed with embarrassment. “Sorry,” she said quickly. “It’s just, this room is never empty.”

“That’s true.” He wasn’t sure what else to say; his heart was pounding in his ears. A conversation, possibly? This was certainly the most she’d ever spoken to him. But as he carried his laundry to a free machine, he realized she was swiping her card in the machines and leaving.

“Actually, do you have a second?”

The words were out of his mouth before he’d had time to consider them. What was he doing? What was he planning to even say to her? _Hello, love, it’s me, your Captain, and I’m still not ready to move things off paper but I figured I’d ruin everything by introducing myself? Why hello, stranger, will you talk to me for a few minutes about nothing so I can bask in your presence? Please talk to me so I can gauge our in-person chemistry more accurately, with no ulterior motive whatsoever of course?_

“Uh, sure.”

He’d never felt so acutely aware of his tongue in his life. “This might be a little forward,” he began. Was he really about to do _this?_ “But I’ve seen you around the building, and I was wondering if you might want to go out sometime.”

What on earth was wrong with this him weekend? First, he’d gone ahead and knocked on her bloody door, and now he was asking her on a date? It _was_  what she’d wanted, to be fair. But he wasn’t _ready_ for any of this; what was _wrong_ with him?

She was frowning, and he realized he hadn’t introduced himself. A year of living in this building with her, and he’d been dying for the opportunity: introduce himself and _learn her name._ “I’m Killian, by the way.” He reached out his hand. _Introduce himself and ..._

She took it. “Emma.” … _learn her name._

 _Emma._  Finally. His Princess was _Emma._ Emma Swan.

He remembered that he’d introduced himself while in the midst of an entirely different conversation. “So, would you like to?” She gave him a blank stare, one that made it clear that she hadn’t remembered what he had said before. “Go out sometime, that is. I’m free for drinks tonight if you’re up for it.”

So, there it was. He was asking Swan—Emma, her name was Emma—on an official, in person date.

He was _not_ ready. But he was a man of honor. If she accepted his invitation, he would go. And he wouldn’t deceive her either: the date would mean their written relationship would become a thing of the past. He’d have to reveal himself, ready or not. He held his breath.

“I …” She hesitated; his stomach dropped as he was convinced, for a moment, that she would accept. “I’m so sorry, but I’m actually seeing someone. But, uh, it’s really nice to finally meet you.”

Relief flooded him. “Well, no harm in asking.” He smiled at her, hoping to reassure her that there needn’t be any awkwardness between them. “And at least I’ve finally introduced myself after living here for the past year. See you around, Emma.”

“See you around.” She left quickly—so much for alleviating any potential awkwardness.

It wasn’t until he returned to his flat that he realized a detail he’d missed, distracted by his relief that she’d declined his ill-conceived invitation. She’d said she was seeing someone.

 _Was_ she?

If she was, it was terribly bad form for her to be engaging in a sexually explicit written relationship with _him_ at the same time. But then again, was what they really had a relationship?

Frustrated, he realized that it was nearly mid-afternoon, and Swan—Emma—was likely expecting a letter from him at some point. He hadn’t received one from her, but she’d left the last one; it was his turn. He quickly typed out one and left it under the mat while she was pulling her laundry from the dryer.

> _Dearest Swan,_
> 
> _I hope that you slept well. I apologize for the lateness of this message, but I slept poorly last night. And to be honest with you, for I find I must always be honest with you, I fear that I’ve upset you, and I’m not sure what to say to make amends. I find it to be bad form to pretend that a conflict never occurred, and while I have no desire to pick at a fresh scab, so to speak, I really want to make sure you’re okay. And, well, that_ we’re _okay._
> 
> _Still yours,  
> _ _Your Captain_  

Although it was late enough for him to consider dinner (and he _should_ be considering it, given that he needed to decide whether or not to order food or make a trip to the supermarket), he flopped on the couch noisily and let out a shaky sigh. He was too concerned with just how _foolish_ he’d been over the past twenty-four hours. Perhaps he hadn’t truly realized just how much he missed Swan until she’d been gone for a couple days, and the loneliness had driven him mad.

But it was more than just his frustrations with his own behavior.

Swan had declined his invitation for drinks, which was _fine_. He hadn’t been ready, after all. But she was seeing someone, she said.

And that stirred up feelings that he didn’t realize he had, and that he couldn’t quite put words to.

He’d thought, at first, that he was simply a little curious as to whether or not she was in a relationship while carrying on their correspondence. Perhaps she was hiding the letters from her significant other, or things were casual and she simply hadn’t said anything to this other person. Maybe he was being unkind to Swan and a bit old-fashioned: it was entirely possible that she was in a relationship in which her partner knew of her exchanges with the strange secret admirer and simply didn’t care. Was she being honest with him?

Not that she truly owed him that. Who was he, after all? He was a nameless, faceless entity who left letters (and sometimes DVDs or novels) by her door and refused to show himself. What claim did he have on her affections?

None. And that, he found, felt quite terrible.

The thought of her smiling at someone else’s messages, or sending silly selfies to someone else, or getting off while thinking of someone else, was unbearable.

He selfishly wanted all of that to himself. He didn’t feel this way—whatever “this way” was—about anyone else. That she might feel this way towards more than one person made him feel more insignificant than he could ever care to admit.

And the worst part was that he couldn’t reveal that he knew this information without letting her know that he and the Captain were one and the same.

Perhaps it was time to end this … whatever it was. At least he’d fulfilled Jefferson’s terms: he’d asked her out on a proper date. The dare was now over.

When he spotted the yellow paper under the mat on his way to grab his washed and dried clothing, his stomach sank. He missed when her letters made him feel better, not worse. But he was a gentleman; he would read her letter and go from there.

> _My dear Captain,_
> 
> _I won’t lie to you either. I am feeling a bit weird since our discussion last night. But it’s just something I need to deal with. I know you’re not ready to meet, and I know that it’ll definitely ruin it for me if we meet when you’re not ready. I’ll be okay—I promise. Knowing that you do want to meet eventually is enough right now. I just need to stop pouting._
> 
> _I should tell you: someone asked me out today. Another tenant in the building. I told him no. And I want to tell you_ why _I told him no._
> 
> _I told him no because I felt like I’d be cheating on you. I know this might sound ridiculous, but this feels like a relationship to me, and I want to call it that. But I have no idea what you’re feeling about this. I mean, I could guess, but I’ve been wrong before so …_
> 
> _Your Princess (she hopes)_

Him. She was seeing _him._

He couldn’t stop the bubble of laughter that escaped him. She’d chosen _him._

A _relationship._

Is that what this was?

He sank back down on his couch. Was he in a relationship? But how had it happened? This whole time, he’d assumed that nothing could happen so long as they hadn’t met in person. And yet, here he was, stewing for a couple hours at the thought of Swan being with anyone else.

Jealousy. He’d been jealous. That his _girlfriend_ might have affections for another.

He wasted no time in writing his reply; Swan would not—could not—believe for one moment longer that she wasn’t his. Or that he wasn’t hers.

> _My Princess—yes, mine,_
> 
> _I feel the same way. I know what you mean; it is rather odd. But I have no intention of seeing anyone else romantically or sexually. I just want you, love. Thank you for being patient with me._
> 
> _I would not have been upset had you agreed to go out with that other tenant. Well, it would be more accurate to say that I would have been upset with myself; your actions would have been completely understandable. But I cannot even begin to find the words to express how it feels to know that you chose me._
> 
> _Yes, love. I do see this as a relationship, however unconventional a one it might be._
> 
> _Absolutely, totally, very much yours,  
> _ _Your Captain_  

He waited until he’d delivered the note to pour himself a finger of his favorite scotch. They were just getting started. He had time.

He’d get there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope this makes up for the way the last chapter ended! I'd love to know what you think.


	8. Chapter Eight

The rest of the weekend passed in a pleasant blur of grocery shopping, casework, and filthy letters; declaring their intentions seemed to light a fire he hadn’t known existed, and she made it clear the feeling was mutual. He felt energized and relaxed when he returned to work on Monday morning, and even Spencer was impressed by how thorough and detailed his work was regarding the Tillman case.

“This might just get them to settle,” he said proudly, scrolling through an electronic version of Killian’s work on his iPad. “Excellent work, Jones.”

“Thank you, sir.”

The senior partner continued to tap on the tablet. “You will be attending my holiday party, correct?”

“I—yes, sir.” He was never foolish enough to decline that invitation; Albert Spencer’s annual holiday party was _the_ place to make connections, and it was understood that attendance for associates was practically mandatory. Killian didn’t particularly enjoy himself, often making the rounds a few times with James, Spencer’s son and a fellow associate, and making sure Spencer himself saw him before slipping out before ten o’clock. Some of the guests were good company, but after growing up relatively poor (the settlement from the accident hardly counted, given how much of it went towards his education in the States), he found the majority of his boss’ high society friends extremely grating, unpleasant, and out of touch with reality.

“My secretary tells me that you RSVPed without a plus one.”

Killian blinked, trying to process why his boss was mentioning the detail. He’d sent back his response to the invitation a month ago, only a couple of weeks after he’d started leaving messages at Swan’s door. And even if he _could_ change his response to include Swan as his date … that would not work, given their unique situation.

“That’s … correct,” he said slowly, treading carefully.

“You’re not bringing anyone?” Spencer raised an eyebrow. Was he _supposed_ to bring a date?

“And who would you have me bring, sir?”

“Just bring _someone_ ,” Spencer said emphatically. “You’re young, you’re handsome, and you’re talented, and that’s all well and good. But people don’t like to see family lawyers who don’t have their personal lives together. It makes them think you don’t know what you’re talking about. Just bring someone who’ll smile and look nice and make you look good. I already added a plus one to the guest list, so just make sure my secretary gets a name by Friday.” And with that, he nodded and left Killian’s office.

Bloody hell.

Instead of going home after work, he went to the marina. Thirty minutes after he left the office, he was aboard the _Jolly_ , mulling over the situation.

He couldn’t ask Swan. It was just out of the question. But should he even tell her about it?

It felt like an insult, almost, to insist that he was not ready to meet, and then, mere days later, tell her about an event to which she was essentially invited by his boss. It was nothing short of taunting, wasn’t it? He could still tell her about the event in general, he supposed; he had never planned to hide it from her. He would have to explain his absence that evening anyway, and “work holiday party” seemed fairly innocuous. She might assume he’d be welcome to bring a significant other, but she wouldn’t guess that he’d been _instructed_ to.

It was settled, he thought, as he stared off at the horizon. He would let his Princess know that he would be absent that evening, but thinking of her the whole time. It was an easy promise to make: it would be true.

But who to bring with him? He supposed there was one potentially easy answer to that.

“Hey, Killian.”

“Evening, love.”

“Are you … are you calling me from the boat?”

He rolled his eyes at Belle’s comment. _The boat_. “I’m simply enjoying the evening from the deck.”

“Ah. Well, what’s up?”

“Are you available the evening of the eleventh?”

“No, and I don’t think you are either,” she said.

“What?”

“Graham said he called you. He wanted us to go to the movies with him and meet his girlfriend.”

“Shit.” He’d _meant_ to check his calendar and get back to Graham, but with all the turmoil surrounding Swan— _Emma_ , he had to remind himself—it had slipped his mind entirely. “That’s the annual holiday party.”

“Oh, so you can’t go anyway.”

“No, and I … I need a date. Spencer made it abundantly clear that it’s not optional.”

She laughed. “That’s a bit strange.”

“He said something about how no one wants a family law attorney who doesn’t have their act together,” he said, trying to remember the phrasing. “I don’t know, it sounds like bullshit to me, but he was insistent.”

“I’ll come with you.” He sighed with relief. He truly didn’t deserve such a friend. “Do I get to wear a fancy dress?”

“The fanciest.” He couldn’t suppress his grin.

“What about your neighbor?”

“What do you mean?”

“Will she appreciate you going to this event with someone else instead of her?”

“She knows I’m not ready to meet,” he explained. “She’s giving me time. We’re happy with the relationship as is.”

“Whoa.” Bloody hell, he had _not_ meant to say that! “Killian, _relationship?”_ Her inflection was far from judgmental, but he cringed anyway.

“Let’s not make a huge ruckus out of this.”

“How can you even say that?”

“Belle, please.”

“Oh, _please_ yourself, Killian. How would you react if I said something like that to you? Don’t pretend you’d think nothing of it.”

She had him there. “What are we supposed to do? Celebrate? Nothing’s changed; we simply put a name to it.”

“But you’re still not ready to meet?”

“No.” He wasn’t about to tell Belle about what had happened Saturday, when he’d asked Swan out in the laundry room. It was time to redirect the conversation back to its original thread. “Anyway, you’ll come with me?”

“Of course I will, Killian. Just let me know what time. I think I have the day off, so I can meet you at your place if you’d like.”

“Thank you.” He felt his shoulders relax; he loathed asking for favors. “I’m truly fortunate to have such a wonderful friend.”

She chuckled, clearly pleased at the compliment. “Well, I try.”

He arrived home quite late; it had been a while since he’d taken public transit to the marina instead of driving, and he’d forgotten how long it took to take the train. There was a note waiting for him under Swan’s mat.

> _My Captain,_
> 
> _Is everything all right? I feel kind of like a spoiled asshole asking where the hell my letter is. But, like … maybe I’m a spoiled asshole. Are you okay?_
> 
> _Your spoiled asshole Princess_

 

> _My darling, not at all spoiled Princess,_
> 
> _You have my sincerest apologies, love. I had quite the day at work and spent some time on my ship to clear my head. You may be shocked to hear that the Green Line was particularly unforgiving when it came time for me to return home._
> 
> _Was your day all right? I spent much of mine wishing I could return to this weekend, enjoying myself with you. I admit, I’m still a little giddy. It’s been quite some time since I could say that I was in a relationship—more time than I’d care to admit. You may have to remind me how to behave._
> 
> _Please don’t feel pressured to reply by tonight, by the way; I know it’s quite late. I will try to make it up to you, I promise. Even if I don’t remember how to be a boyfriend very well, I do know that you should never have to wait up, wondering if I’ve forgotten about you, feeling even the least bit unwanted. I care about you, and I’ll try not to leave you worrying again._
> 
> _Yours truly,  
> _ _Your Captain_

He made sure to warn her the following week that he would be unavailable Friday evening, and would be out of touch until the following morning. He was careful: he simply said he had an office holiday party, hoping that she would assume, like he had his first year at the firm, that it was a simple party, held late in the workday in the office itself. If she knew it was a black tie event, and then she spotted him in a tux as he left his flat, the jig would be up.

Maybe Belle’s presence would make this party bearable; he really rather preferred to stay home and chat with Swan.

There was a knock on his door at six o’clock, just as he was fastening his cufflinks (hopefully no one important would notice that they carried a skull and crossbones design on them). He opened the door to find a beautiful brunette in a blush colored gown; it took him a moment to even recognize that it was Belle standing in front of him.

She was grinning widely as she swept into the flat. “So, I take it you think I look nice?”

He managed to find his voice again. “Belle, you’re stunning.” Bloody hell, she looked nothing like the shy librarian he’d known for years.

“Why, thank you, Killian,” she said, curtseying cheekily. “Oh, you’re wearing the cufflinks I got you!”

He grinned and struck a pose to show them off. “But of course. I can’t resist wearing them when given the opportunity.”

“That makes me very happy.” She was still grinning, as though she had a secret.

“Is everything all right?”

“I rode the elevator with someone,” she said mysteriously, her tone implying that the comment should mean something to him. When he merely furrowed his brows and shrugged, she sighed, although she kept smiling. “Beautiful blonde, who _happened_ to get off on this very floor and pick up a note that someone left under her doormat—ring a bell?”

He could feel his blush extend to the tips of his ears. “You didn’t …” He coughed to clear his throat. “You didn’t talk to her—tell her—”

“She complimented me very sweetly on my attire, and I thanked her.” Belle rubbed his shoulder affectionately. “Of course I didn’t tell her.”

He sagged. “Thank you.”

She chuckled. “Ye of little faith. Now, let’s get this show on the road! I didn’t get all dressed up to sit around at home.”

“Too right.”

He’d been nervous that Swan might join them in the elevator; he knew she would likely hit the fitness center tonight, knowing he wouldn’t be home. Instead, when they stepped into the lift, it was empty except for Will, who wore the expression that indicated he was about to spend another Friday wallowing in whiskey at a local bar. But the man’s eyes lit up and widened as Belle moved next to him, graciously trying to bunch up her flowing skirts to avoid inconveniencing him. Killian concealed a smirk as he hit the button to the garage level.

The Boston Public Library was decorated resplendently for the occasion, and Belle had to continually suppress her giddiness as they moved through the rooms and greeted the guests Killian knew. “I’ve _never_ been to such a fancy event in my life!” she all but squealed when they moved to a corner to get a break from socializing. “And it’s _here._ You know how much I love this place.”

“Thanks again for coming with me.”

She rolled her eyes as she sipped her champagne. “Well, of _course._ ”

“Belle? Killian?”

“Kristoff?” The social worker was several feet away, waving enthusiastically for them to come over.

“I didn’t know he’d be here,” Killian whispered as they walked over.

“Neither did I,” Belle replied. “Hi, Kristoff!”

“Evening, mate.” He shook his hand. “Where’s your lovely girlfriend?”

Kristoff smiled sadly. “She wasn’t feeling well.”

“Oh, that’s too bad.” Although he privately thought it was for the best; having an extremely, tactlessly talkative date could be a liability at this sort of soirée.

“Killian Jones, is that you?” Ingrid Fisher, chief of staff and Kristoff’s boss, glided over, looking like a queen in a glittering silver gown.

“Ingrid, it’s lovely to see you.” He kissed her cheek. He was understating his feelings; it was a _relief_ to see her. She was one of the few people he looked forward to conversing with at these sorts of events.

“And who is this gorgeous lady?” She looked towards Belle.

“Ingrid, this is my friend, Belle French. She’s agreed to keep me company this evening. Belle, this is Ingrid Fisher, from the Department of Children and Families.”

“My extremely demanding boss,” Kristoff said helpfully, causing Ingrid to roll her eyes.

“Lovely to meet you,” Belle said warmly.

“Likewise,” Ingrid said sincerely. “Now, you said, ‘friend?’” she asked, giving Killian a look that made him very much want to find a hiding place.

“Uh, yes,” he said.

“Belle, why don’t we go check out the reading room?” Kristoff said loudly.

“Oh, that would be lovely,” Belle agreed eagerly, before the two quickly departed.

Ingrid laughed. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to make it too awkward.”

He smiled, trying to seem at ease. “No worries, darling. But yes, Belle’s simply a friend of mine. Spencer was adamant that I not come tonight without a date.”

She chuckled. “Well, that does sound like him, always trying to make a good impression with the clientele. Though it doesn’t make that much of a difference.”

“I agree wholeheartedly.”

“Well, I’m glad to hear that you’re single actually,” she said, and his heart sank. “There’s a woman in my office who I _swear_ would be perfect for you.”

“Ingrid.”

“Just hear me out. She does adoptions, so it wouldn’t be a conflict of interest like it would be if you dated Kristoff.” She winked. “She’s gorgeous, and she’s got a great sense of humor, and she’s recently single. I think the two of you would absolutely hit it off, and I’d be happy to give you her number.”

The only way to handle the awkward moment was to simply barrel right through it. “Ingrid, that is a very kind offer, but I’m … actually not single.”

“Oh.” She looked surprised and a little sad for a minute, but then fond irritation crossed her face. She playfully slapped his shoulder. “Well, why didn’t you say anything? Letting me go on like that …”

“My apologies.”

“So if you’re not single, what’s with bringing a friend tonight?”

He sighed. “She couldn’t make it.”

“That’s too bad,” Ingrid replied sympathetically. “Long distance?”

He almost replied with a _no._ But … “Yes, exactly.” Long distance! It was so simple! “Fortunately, she was all right with me bringing Belle, but I do wish she could have been able to attend with me.”

‘Well, hopefully next year, distance won’t be an issue.” She smiled. “Because I am _very_ interested in meeting whoever was able to get Killian Jones to be in a relationship.” He coughed on the champagne he’d been sipping, but Ingrid simply chuckled and strode off.

He arrived home after dropping off a happily drunk Belle; there was a note waiting for him.

> _My Captain,_
> 
> _I hate your stupid job’s stupid holiday party. I miss you tonight. Come home and tell me how much more fun you’d have had if you’d stayed in tonight._
> 
> _Sorry, I’m in a bad mood. My boss goes to this party every year, and I always want to go, but the invite’s just for her. Well, this year one of my coworkers got to go, too. He doesn’t even_ like _these kinds of shindigs! I might have wallowed a bit over the whole thing. I ate a sleeve of Ritz crackers and watched_ Say Yes to the Dress _for a few hours_. _Uuuugh I feel so gross._
> 
> _I don’t know what time I’m going to bed, but please … I know you might be home late, but please leave me something. I feel so …_  

Here, she’d crossed out a great deal of text, so completely that he couldn’t discern what she’d said.

> _Whatever. Miss you._
> 
> _Your Princess_

He loosened his bow tie and undid his cufflinks first, but then he immediately sat at the computer. 

> _My dearest Swan,_
> 
> _You were on my mind all night, love. All I could think of, the entire party, was how how early I could skip out and come home. To say I would have had more fun here with you doesn’t do justice to just how much better my night would have been had I spent it in your figurative company. The entire evening, I wanted to talk to you, to laugh with you, to revel in your presence. Work parties are already undesirable ways to spend my time; when they also keep me from you, they become abhorrent._
> 
> _I will spend the entire weekend working to make it up to you. I swear to you, my darling Princess, that when I’m through with you, there will be no doubt in your mind how much I regret leaving you alone all night._
> 
> _Truly yours,  
> _ _Your Captain_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More new scenes! I'd love to know what you think.


	9. Chapter Nine

A week and a half later, Killian was reading Swan’s morning letter when his cell phone rang. He frowned and pulled out his phone, but the number wasn’t one he recognized. He knew for sure it was a personal call—clients, or potential clients, would not have access to the number—and given how Spencer felt about personal calls in the office, he felt justified in letting it go to voicemail.

He quickly swiped to silence the ringer and went back to the letter, which was _also_ not a Spencer-approved way to spend his lunch break, but it was certainly worth breaking a rule or two. Swan was having a grand time describing how her friends were hoping that he might give them another brunch trip ( _BIL is suggesting it would make a good Christmas present, he’s_ so _desperate for another meal there!_ ); he went to check the restaurant’s website and see if they were perhaps open the day after Christmas.

As he opened his browser, his office phone rang.

“Killian Jones,” he answered.

“Killian? It’s Wendy.”

For a moment, he wondered _Wendy who?_ and began to think of some of his past clients and one-night stands. But then it hit him like a clichéd ton of bricks: Wendy Darling.

“Wendy, love, how are you?” He could feel the strain in his throat. Wendy never called him. Ever.

“I … well, I suppose you’ve guessed I’m not terribly well,” she said.

“Yes, well … what’s going on?”

“It’s your father.”

His body felt numb. “What about him?” The last he’d heard of his father, the man had been trying to take advantage of Wendy’s brother, Michael, before going on welfare and struggling to find steady employment.

“He’s … he’s in hospice. It’s his liver. They want next of kin.”

Hospice. Next of kin.

“Wendy, I can’t just drop everything and—”

“Killian, he’s _dying.”_ He could tell she was trying very hard not to burst into tears. “They’re saying he’s not going to make it to the end of the week. I know you hate him and you don’t want to deal with him, but I just _can’t_ and you are his _son,_ and you’re a bloody solicitor for god’s sake!” Now she really was crying, and he lowered his head in shame. “You’re an _adult_ and you need to come home and _be_ one.”

“I can’t leave,” he said, choking out the words. “I’ve … my girlfriend.”

“Bring her with you if you have to.” He could hear her wiping her face. “Look, I have to go, hospice is calling again. You have my email?”

“Aye.” The walls felt as though they were closing in on him.

“Send me your itinerary and hotel?”

“Very well.”

“Killian?”

“Aye?”

“I’m really sorry.”

As though it mattered.

He was still staring at the phone when Spencer strode into his office. “You all right, Jones?”

“I—I have to go to London,” he replied hoarsely.

His boss’ eyes narrowed, not in suspicion, but concern. “What happened?”

“My father is on his deathbed.”

It required no more explanation. “I’ll have my secretary handle your calendar and clients. Take as long as you need.” And then he was gone.

Killian’s hands shook as he looked up flights. He could hardly think. His bloody bastard of a father was dying. He was going to have to go to London. Leave _Swan._

As if Christmas weren’t already his least favorite time of year. It took effort to resist throwing his coffee mug against the wall—of _course_ this would happen when he thought perhaps this year might be different. Of _course_ when he finally could enjoy this damn holiday, and have everything he thought he could never have—

Fine. He would go to London. Wendy hadn’t clarified, but he’d understood that he was expected to put his legal acumen to good use and settle his father’s affairs (never mind that he was able to practice law in the Commonwealth of Massachusetts, not internationally). And so he would do just that, then _leave._

He called Belle, who was enjoying intersession between semesters and would be free to take the call.

“Killian, what’s wrong?”

“Do you still have the keys to my flat?”

“Yes, why?” she asked suspiciously.

“I …” It was painful to think about, but he’d already agreed. “I have to go to London.”

“You—why?”

“It’s my father.”

She was so quiet, he was about to ask if she was even still on the other end. But she spoke before he could. “He’s dying, isn’t he?”

“Aye.” Belle knew him well enough to know: that would be the only reason he would be going to see the man.

“You need me to get your mail?” she asked.

“Very perceptive, yes.”

“What about … your girlfriend?”

“I … I don’t know,” he admitted.

“Killian.” He could tell by the shift in tone that she was about to (probably correctly) tell him what he should do. “I think it’s time to call off the whole anonymity thing. You can’t just leave her hanging for a week.”

“I wouldn’t leave her without _telling_ her,” he replied hotly, offended that Belle would even think him capable of doing such a thing.

“I just mean, you need to give her your number or email or _something.”_

“I guess so,” he admitted. “I could give her my number.”

“Do you need me to meet you at your place? Help you pack?”

“No, but thank you, love. I should have time. I just need to finish up a few tasks here, book my flight and hotel and such.”

“Hotel?”

He chuckled weakly. “Well, yes, darling. They’re these incredibly convenient buildings with lots of little rooms you can sleep in for as many nights as you need.”

“I just mean, don’t you have family there?”

He clenched his jaw. “Belle, I can’t impose on the Darlings. Besides, it’s not just a few nights.”

“But it’s not _imposing,_ exactly,” she argued. “And besides, your father’s dy—well, it seems cruel for them not to at least offer to put you up.”

“I’m not exactly their favorite cousin, and I wore out my welcome quite effectively when I lived with them after—look, Belle, it’s complicated.”

He rolled his eyes when he heard her gasp. “Oh my god! _This_ is why you hate asking anyone for help!”

“Belle!”

“No, it’s all making sense! I _knew_ there was a reason you didn’t tell anyone of us you were living on your boat all those years ago.”

“That’s different!” he protested. “I didn’t know you or Graham very well, and Jefferson was dealing with Priscilla’s death. I couldn’t impose.”

 _“Impose?_ Killian, you were _homeless!_ I still can’t forgive myself for not realizing it.”

“Belle, I can’t talk about this right now.” Or ever, he added mentally. “I have to go—I need to book this flight. Will you please stop by during the week and bring my mail up? I don’t have time to deal with the post office.”

She sighed. “Of _course_ I will, Killian. Call me when you land, okay? I don’t care what time it is when you do.”

“I will. Thank you.”

And then he opened up his word processor.

> _My beloved Princess,_
> 
> _This morning, I received a call from a family member imploring me to return home for the holidays. I will be forthright: my selfish bastard of an estranged father is on his deathbed, and the remaining members of my extended family are certain that he will not survive much longer. As I write this letter to you, I am in the process of booking transportation home; I am his next of kin._
> 
> _I am so sorry, love. I don’t want to leave. I cannot be without you, even for a week._

Would it only be a week? He quickly went to check flights. And bloody hell, with Christmas _and_ New Year’s, _everyone_ would be on holiday. Unless he stayed through the first, he was likely going to be unable to reach any of the appropriate entities to deal with his father’s affairs.

The thought was sickening, and his stomach churned. He regretted the coffee he’d been sipping.

Fine, till the first, then.

But no longer than that, he resolved. There was nothing else for him in London; he would deal with the messy business of death and get the hell back to the States. He clicked to confirm the best flights and erased that line of text in the document.

> _As it stands now, I am due to return on January 1st. Obviously, the circumstances I’m in are not so clear-cut; I’ve no way to know when (it has been made very clear to me that this is a “when, not if” situation) my father will pass, and if I will have to stay longer. But the thought of beginning the new year without you is unsavory at best, and unbearable at worst; if I plan to be home by then, then perhaps fortune will see fit to show me favor._
> 
> _In the meantime, I cannot go a day without you. This anonymity must end._
> 
> _I’m Killian. Please give me a call or email me, I don’t care which: 617_

He stopped, mid-phone number.

He hit delete.

> _I’m Killian. Yes, the man who asked you out in the laundry room. I want to explain myself to you more than anything, but for now, I just need to_

No.

Delete. 

> _Please call me or email me. Either one is fine, although of course I can’t answer if I’m on the plane._

Except, would she hang up when he answered? And his email had his name in it; wouldn’t she realize it then? What if she refused to speak to him?

He was going to have to wait. He sighed, wiping at his eyes. How could he still speak to her every day if he couldn’t give her his contact information?

He couldn’t. Or at least, he couldn’t hear from her. An idea formed in his mind.

> _My beloved Princess,_
> 
> _This morning, I received a call from a family member imploring me to return home for the holidays. I will be forthright: my selfish bastard of an estranged father is on his deathbed, and the remaining members of my extended family are certain that he will not survive much longer. As I write this letter to you, I am in the process of booking transportation home; I am his next of kin._
> 
> _It’s bad enough that I am leaving you, even temporarily (I’m not_ leaving _you—you know that). It’s bad enough that I’m leaving at Christmas. It’s bad enough that I’m ruining our plans. I feel terrible. I cannot abandon you._
> 
> _So I’ve done all that I can do on such short notice. I’ve enclosed a letter for each day that I am forcibly parted from you. Because of this unexpected turn of events, I had not had a chance to properly prepare your gift; please excuse the incredibly unattractive packaging._
> 
> _As it stands now, I am due to return on January 1st. Obviously, the circumstances I’m in are not so clear-cut; I’ve no way to know when (it has been made very clear to me that this is a “when, not if” situation) my father will pass, and if I will have to stay longer. But the thought of beginning the new year without you is unsavory at best, and unbearable at worst; if I plan to be home by then, then perhaps fortune will see fit to show me favor._
> 
> _This turn of events has made one thing crystal clear to me: I can’t wait any longer. When I do return home, love, do not expect a note under your doormat. Expect me, standing atop it, begging your forgiveness for asking you to wait this long, and for having to leave in the first place._
> 
> _Already counting the days till our reunion,  
> _ _Your Captain_

He knew exactly where he’d left her present, still in the packing envelope; when he returned home to pack, he’d quickly deface the packaging as a precaution.

He sighed, reading over the final paragraph. He _was_ ready. He had to be. All this faux long distance was becoming painful, and the desire to hold her in his arms finally outweighed his fear. In fact, it was hard to remember the fear; when had that happened? When had he crossed over into this new realm, one in which he _wanted_ to be known?

He shook his head. It would have to wait.

In the meantime, he would book his hotel and rental car, and then get down to the business of giving her something to look forward to while he was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long! No time at all at work, and then once I got home, it was time to do chores, cook dinner, and watch 5x05! But here you go! Let me know what you think!


	10. Chapter Ten

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content note: This chapter contains explicit sexual content.

Killian took a deep breath as he stared at his screen, trying to think of what to write to Swan. Tomorrow was Christmas Eve; she would wake up and go to work. He knew she’d been extremely stressed regarding her workload, with so many of her coworkers on holiday. She’d mentioned her fear that she’d have to work on Christmas Day, and he’d selfishly hoped she wouldn’t be trapped at the office (what office, he still didn’t know) so that he’d have a chance at an enjoyable holiday. And now, it no longer affected _his_ holiday. Could he ever have a pleasant Christmas?

This holiday was shite, that was for sure.

> _My lovely princess,_
> 
> _Again, I am so sorry to leave you like this. While you are one day closer to our reunion (our_ real _reunion), I am still in the past, on the first day of our separation. Please forgive me in advance because I’m sure that each letter is going to get more and more desperate._
> 
> _I can’t stop now, can I? I have to keep going._
> 
> _It’s nearly two o’clock, and while my flight isn’t until seven, I barely even have an hour before I must finish these letters and leave the office, if I’m to make that damn flight. But for you, it’s Christmas Eve. I hope that you were able to get your work done so that you would have a chance at a peaceful, uninterrupted Christmas Day._
> 
> _At the risk of ruining everything, I sort of dislike Christmas. I got dumped on Christmas one year; I do not recommend experiencing this. This was the life-altering heartbreak I mentioned to you long ago; I nearly drank myself to death afterwards. It was my friends who saved me (well, B really. G never knows how to help, and J often delights in making things worse.)_
> 
> _I’m telling you this now so that tomorrow’s letter can be appropriately festive, without any sort of Scrooge-esque attitude to spoil the mood._
> 
> _I’m not sure how to finish this letter. It was supposed to have a point, but I think perhaps I’m panicking at the realization that I have to get on a plane in a few hours, and go a week and a half without you._
> 
> _Truly yours, from miles away,  
> _ _Your Captain_

And now, it would be Christmas Day. He imagined that she would sleep in, open her gifts and enjoy breakfast, as she’d planned. He’d had so much in store for her: he had planned to deliver the necklace to her doorstep, along with the most erotic letter he could pen. And then after dinner, they would spend the evening drinking Old Fashioneds, one of her favorite drinks, and watch one of his favorite classic films.

He might as well try to give her as much of that plan as he could. He quickly closed his office door; word had probably spread regarding his predicament, and hopefully his colleagues would be inclined to give him space rather than offer condolences. And he needed privacy for what he was about to write.

> _My dearest Swan,_
> 
> _By now, I hope you’ve opened your gift. If not, please open it. I’m sorry that I’m going to have to deliver it to you still in the packaging it arrived in, but hopefully you won’t be too offended._
> 
> _Have you opened it? Good._
> 
> _I hope that you like it. I couldn’t resist a necklace fit for my beautiful Swan, and I imagine that this will look quite lovely on you. And now, for another gift to make up for my absence, I suggest that you begin by putting on your lovely gift and taking off everything else._
> 
> _I want you to lie back on your bed, and begin by slowly caressing your skin, from your neck to your breasts, down your stomach, and finally across your inner thighs. Are they as creamy white as I’ve imagined? Stroke yourself all over for me, paying special attention to any particular spot that feels unusually erogenous. You know that if I were there with you, I’d find those spots and tease them, tickle them, caress them, until you were squirming with need._
> 
> _I hope you have new batteries, darling. I think you would feel incredible if you were to slowly drag your favorite toy across your nipples. I’m sure they’re already nice and hard for me. If they’re not, then the vibrations across them should do the trick. And if they are, said vibrations will just make you moan even more._
> 
> _Are you dripping for me yet, my Swan? Touch yourself and tell me._
> 
> _I’m sure that right now, you would feel incredible if you were to hold your vibrator against your aching clit, but I have a much better idea. I want you to turn it off and take advantage of its phallic shape. While I promise you that it’s nothing compared to the real thing, I still think you should slowly push it into your sweet pussy. Do that for me, love._
> 
> _I want you to use one hand to fuck yourself with your toy, and the other to play with whatever you’d like: your breasts or your clit. All that matters is that you let yourself go and feel intense pleasure knowing that, because you are fucking yourself for me, I’m really the one who’s fucking you._
> 
> _I hope that you’ve enjoyed that, love. I desperately wish that I were there to really make it a reality for you (me being the one pleasuring you, I mean). I’ve taken quite the risk writing this to you; it’s bad form to sport an erection at work, so I’ll be refusing to leave my office until I can get thoughts of you writhing naked on your bed out of my mind._
> 
> _Merry Christmas, my dear Swan. I cannot predict very much about what I’ll be doing while you read this; I can only promise you that I will be trying desperately to find a way to watch_ It’s a Wonderful Life _while drinking an Old Fashioned. I will not begrudge you if you make other plans, and I’ll obviously be happy to watch the film and drink with you, together, when I return._
> 
> _Always yours,  
> _ _Your Captain_

He shifted uncomfortably, his cock pushing comically at his slacks, and he felt overwhelmed with shame. His father was dying, and he was about to desert his girlfriend without giving her _any_ way to contact him or protest his sudden departure. He was at work, and his boss was giving him however much time he needed to deal with his family emergency.

And so naturally, all he could think about was how badly he wanted to fuck Swan and forget all his problems.

He swallowed and adjusted his erection. Clearly, he _wasn’t_ ready for Swan’s affection if he would even _imagine_ that sharing intimacy with her would be for his benefit only. He shook his head wearily and continued writing.

> _My dear Swan,_
> 
> _Today is Boxing Day here in the United Kingdom. Essentially, it’s Black Friday, but after Christmas instead of after Thanksgiving, and there’s lots of football to watch (real football, obviously; I suppose I’ve just revealed that I’m not a bloody Yankee). Except it’s not really Boxing Day. It’s still December 23rd, and I am still in my office, desperate to stay home in Boston with you. It’s been a long time since I moved to Boston from London, for college and subsequently law school, but it’s home now, forever and always._
> 
> _Now that Christmas is over, I can tell you about the time I got dumped on Christmas. When I started law school, a prominent Scottish businessman took an interest in my budding career. Unfortunately, one of my greatest regrets is that, young fool that I was, I took an interest in his wife._
> 
> _The affair lasted about a year, and culminated with her putting me up in a lavish apartment. I was, for lack of a better description, extremely imprudent, and I switched from maritime law to family law under the assumption that I could graduate, pass the bar, facilitate her divorce, and marry her myself. She’d been curious about my change in legal interests, but I lied and claimed that I simply found family law much more fascinating than maritime law. Which isn’t entirely untrue, but obviously, that wasn’t the real reason for my change in focus._
> 
> _On Christmas Day, I finally told her the truth. It was my Christmas gift to her—that I was going to free her from her unhappy marriage. She was shocked; she had never seen our relationship as more than a dalliance. She had no desire to leave her husband at all, and never planned to. Worse, I learned that her husband had been aware of our relationship from the start; in fact, his wife’s sexual interest in me was one of the reasons he had taken me under his wing._
> 
> _To her credit, I suppose, I don’t think she ever meant to mislead me. She’d never seemed terribly worried about getting caught (after all, her husband knew already), and she never spoke about the future. I feel like a fool; I should have noticed. Or at least, I should have waited until the lease on the apartment was up for renewal before taking such a risk._
> 
> _And that’s why I ended up living on my boat for a few months (I’m sure you know what the Boston rental market is like). It’s also why I don’t like sailing in the cold; I love my boat, but it’s more difficult to crank up the heat than it is in an apartment. You’ll have to forgive me for not taking you out on the water until spring arrives. (This is New England, so probably May? June if we’re lucky? But I digress.)_
> 
> _Christmas is a reminder of my own childish mistakes. Knowing that I will spend this already difficult holiday dealing with my father and his impending death makes me dread it even more than I usually do. I have not even left yet, and I’m already longing to come home._
> 
> _Yours more than ever,  
> _ _Your Captain_

He knew it was a lot. It wasn’t just Milah, although he owed Swan an explanation. He knew he was finally offering her information he’d been withholding intentionally: that he was from London, and that he was a lawyer.

But ready or not, it was time to come clean. He couldn’t do it all at once—just the thought of how she might react, knowing that he’d asked her out, was enough to make him nauseated—but he _could_ get some of it out of the way. After all, they were in a relationship, and had been for weeks. It was strange that she _didn’t_ know more about him at this point.

If he was going to return from London and finally show himself to her, she needed to know more than just his taste in media, his sexual fantasies, and his love of sailing.

But what else could he tell her? It was hard to think, given how angry and helpless he was in the face of the current situation. He looked at the clock; it was nearing half-past, and he needed to leave by three to get home and to the airport in time. It had been years since he’d traveled internationally, but he knew it was going to take much longer to get through Logan Airport’s Terminal E than it would Terminal C. He needed to write quickly, and write whatever was on his mind. Something, he reasoned, was better than leaving her with nothing.

> _My wonderful Swan,_
> 
> _I admit that I am very, very angry right now, just thinking about my current situation. My father abandoned my family when I was quite young. I never understood why. In fact, I still don’t understand; this contact is the first that he’s made since then. I was raised by my mother until she died of a broken heart (or cirrhosis, more likely, but as a romantic soul, I’d like to believe it was the broken heart), at which point my older brother found me and took me in. My hands are shaking with rage as I type this. I have not forgiven my father._
> 
> _What’s more, I am unsure whether or not I want to forgive him. What sort of man am I if I cannot forgive someone for mistakes made years ago? What sort of person doesn’t give a second chance to a dying man trying to make amends? But I also feel insulted; must I really be the bigger person here? I am under no obligation to forgive, especially when he’s made no effort to reach out to me until now. And he is taking me away from my life here in the States, when I’m finally happy for the first time in years. My thoughts are a mess right now, love. I don’t know how to feel._
> 
> _I’ve spent these last several weeks being so careful when I write to you, trying to highlight my strengths and omit my faults. I’m embarrassed to reveal this incredible flaw, but I am trying to understand it. And somehow, by forcing myself to admit this insecurity to someone, especially someone I care about and whose opinion matters very much to me, I hope that I can come to terms with it._
> 
> _I shall take a moment now, before I move on to my next letter, to remind myself that at least you are one day closer to the day I return._
> 
> _Missing you terribly, even from my desk at work,  
> _ _Your Captain_

His hand was beginning to cramp from typing so much. Typically, he would stop to stretch and massage it, and if his caseload was particularly heavy, he might enlist one of the paralegals to help. But there was no time, and he wasn’t working on legal documents.

> _My Swan,_
> 
> _Words cannot express how badly I do not want to get on this damn plane tonight. I don’t want to see my father. I don’t want to assist in putting his affairs in order. I don’t want to deal with any of this. I just want to talk to you. Or write to you. But really, talk to you._
> 
> _I would tell you everything about me._
> 
> _I would tell you that some years ago, I was in an accident, and I sustained major injuries to one of my hands. An expert surgeon, years of physical therapy, and a great deal of expensive topical creams have all provided me with as much range of motion, dexterity, and lack of scarring I could have possibly expected after such a serious injury. I was lucky to have kept my hand._
> 
> _It’s why my letters to you have all been typed. While I’ve trained my right hand to be dominant, I’m much more comfortable with a keyboard. Typing has the added benefit of providing me with regular exercise of my left fingers._
> 
> _I could have told you this earlier, but I was nervous that providing you with this information would result in you suspiciously eyeing the left hand of every man in our building. I told myself that I would tell you whenever I was ready for you to know who I was, and then I never felt ready._
> 
> _Well, love, I’m telling you now._
> 
> _It’s vexing that I’m still so insecure about this trait of mine. It’s been years since the accident, and while I’m not one to brag about sexual exploits, nor do I wish to alienate you by discussing them, my minor disability has never been a hindrance of my sex life. And yet I always wonder if it’s distracting, or perhaps if some women only went to bed with me out of pity. This is so foolish. I know you would never care. I don’t know why it bothers me so much._
> 
> _Missing you always,  
> _ _Your Captain_

What else could he talk about? He needed three more letters.

> _Dearest Swan,_
> 
> _I cannot wait to see you. Of course, I’ve seen you—and I know you’ve seen me—but the idea of seeing you, and having you_ really _see me, with recognition in your eyes, fills me with so much hope._
> 
> _I cannot wait to really spend time with you, whether it’s just relaxing in one of our apartments, or walking through Boston, or sailing in the harbor. I really cannot wait to take you sailing._
> 
> _I love my damn boat. I told you I loved_ Peter Pan: _I named her the_ Jolly Roger _in honor of Hook’s pirate ship. I used to think I was the boy who never grew up, but with only one fully functioning hand, sometimes I think maybe I’ve been cast in a more villainous role (also, I’m an attorney, so I’ve got that against me as well)._
> 
> _I knew that no matter where I went to university, I had to be on the coast so I could sail. I didn’t buy the_ Jolly _until I’d moved here, but it was one of the first things I did after the semester started. I’ve traveled to the west coast a few times since moving to the States, and I’ve also spent time down in Florida. But I’m glad I chose Boston; it’s incredibly European, while still maintaining the American, “Fuck you and the horse you rode in on” mentality. And all the Revolutionary War history keeps me grounded._
> 
> _I’ve spent a lot of time on the_ Jolly _lately—not sailing; just relaxing—thinking about you. Do you like the sea? Do you get seasick? Did you really just make a lucky guess when you nicknamed me the Captain? Your letters reveal so much about who you are, but there’s so much I’ve yet to learn about you. And I’m looking forward to that._
> 
> _Still yours,  
> _ _Your Captain_

Two more letters. Two more. It was twenty of three. Twenty minutes before he needed to leave. What else could he tell her?

There was just Liam.

He couldn’t tell her about Liam.

How could he? Liam was … even more than Milah, Liam wasn’t a first or a sixth or a tenth date subject. “I witnessed my brother’s death and it irrevocably altered the course of my life in every way and I have never truly recovered” seemed a tad overwrought.

What had happened with Milah was so absurd that he imagined it had been torn from a soap opera; he didn’t often laugh about it, but it wasn’t an entirely taboo subject. He and Belle would occasionally one-up each other, with him countering her, “My father and fiancé arranged my engagement behind my back and tried to have me committed when I found out and tried to end the relationship” story with his own tale.

But Liam …

No one in his life really knew the details besides his cousins (did his father even know? Had the information found its way to whatever pub the man had crawled into?). Liam’s death occurred before college in the States was even on Killian’s radar, and all his friends in Boston knew was that his brother had died tragically. It was something in his past that stayed there, like whatever had happened with Graham’s upbringing or Belle’s mother.

But he could imagine that Graham would eventually tell Merida whatever it was that he couldn’t seem to tell his friends, and that if Belle were to ever find someone else, she might share with them her mother’s story. How could he possibly be with Swan and hide from her what had happened to Liam? It would be like hiding a piece of himself.

He had no choice. She deserved to know.

> _My darling,_
> 
> _Okay. I have to tell you what happened. I write each letter thinking that I couldn’t possibly tell you this, but I have to. You’ll find out eventually anyway._
> 
> _I told you that I was angry with my father for abandoning me, and that I was raised by my brother after my mother died. My brother was ten years older than me, but he was just a kid himself; it wasn’t fair that he had to raise me. But he did the best he could, given the situation; I’d like to think that the majority of my faults were inevitable, and would have only been worse without his guidance._
> 
> _But now I am heading back to London alone. Just me. No brother._
> 
> _My brother was a sailor. A damn good sailor. He couldn’t afford his own boat for a long time, and so when I would beg him to take me sailing, we’d end up on a tall ship—those ships that take tourists—and he would pay a little extra to have the crew teach me a few things. When I got older, we pooled some of our savings together and got a small sailboat, and we’d take it out whenever we could._
> 
> _You might be able to guess where this story is heading. When I was sixteen and Liam was twenty-six, we were sailing in moderately bad weather; it was manageable enough that we could have kept sailing, but dismal enough that it wasn’t really enjoyable. A fog rolled in suddenly enough that we got stuck out on the water with poor visibility, so we immediately began sailing back._
> 
> _Another boat hit us. It was bad enough that it was crewed by a group of university students who had very little sailing experience. It was worse that they were drunk. And, of course, the worst part of all was that my brother drowned. I tried to save him; my hand got stuck between the two boats._
> 
> _It took a while to reach a settlement; the university students came from wealthy families, and their attorneys argued that we shouldn’t have been on the water, that Liam was drunk, that I was too young and inexperienced. But it’s hard to make those arguments when_ they _shouldn’t have been on the water, when_ they _were drunk, when_ they _were too inexperienced._
> 
> _I recovered—as well as I possibly could—from the accident and lived with a second cousin while I finished school. I came to the States for university and law school on scholarships and on the rest of the money I got from the settlement._
> 
> _I don’t talk about what happened much. Most of the time, if someone asks me about my hand, I just say that I injured it in a traumatic accident and leave it at that. It’s not that I think people will blame me for his death, even if I do still feel guilty for not being able to save him. It’s that I don’t want pity; I don’t want to be that tragic figure._
> 
> _Sometimes, I think Liam must be ashamed of me, not only for my refusal to talk about what happened to him, but also my choice of career. I wanted to study maritime law for_ him. _In his memory. And instead, I chose family law for a woman who never planned on having a future with me. It’s not that I dislike my field; on the contrary, it’s fulfilling in a way that maritime law never would have been for me. But like I said, I let my brother down. I couldn’t save him from death, and I’ve no way to honor his memory. And he_ raised _me. He deserves better._
> 
> _And now I have to go face our father, who abandoned both of us and left Liam to be a father figure when he was barely sixteen. None of this is fair._
> 
> _I’m sorry to have unloaded this all on you. I’ve no more secrets, to be honest. Just these. And on that cheery note, I suppose I’ll end this letter._
> 
> _Desperate to see you,  
> _ _Your Captain_  

One more day: New Year’s Eve. But there was nothing left of him to give her, and it was three o’clock. He had to leave _now._ He quickly packed up his laptop and thumbed through his phone apps to call for an Uber; the T would take much too long to get him home.

Though it was a short drive home, less than twenty minutes, he immediately pulled his computer back out after he climbed into the car. He wouldn’t have time to write much at home—he’d hardly have time to print the letters and pack before heading back out and getting to Logan.

But what to say? That he’d be home “tomorrow,” ready to sweep her up into his arms? Only if she’d have him. And the thought of rejection pained him suddenly, as though a red, hot poker were being thrust into his chest. He wanted her so badly, the thought of her not feeling the same way was unbearable.

But _didn’t_ she want him? She was the one who wanted to meet. She was the one who’d labeled what they shared a relationship. Why _was_ he terrified she didn’t reciprocate? She explicitly _did_ , after all.

He suppressed a groan as he realized it, not wanting to invite the curiosity of the driver:

Because he didn’t know if the depth of her feelings was the same as the depth of his.

Bloody hell.

He was in _love_ with her.

It didn’t feel the way it had before, with Milah. He hadn’t thought himself capable of this emotion anymore anyway. But yes, it was _love_ , burning brightly in his chest, more strongly than it ever had before, conveying a strange lightness that made him forget, just for a moment, that he was about to leave for London.

Leave for London, and leave behind the woman he _loved._

He finished typing the last letter as the car pulled up to his complex.

> _Swan,_
> 
> _About two months ago, my friend J came over for a drink and he rode the elevator with you. He promptly dared me to ask you out, and I’ve always loved a challenge._
> 
> _I am eternally grateful that my insufferably obnoxious friend gave me the push I needed to finally try to talk to you. As I’ve told you already, I had been apprehensive about approaching you, not wanting to hurt you by being closed off, or turning things into a one-night stand. His dare forced me to find a way to talk to you and get to know you, a way I’d been trying to find for months._
> 
> _These past two months have been more wonderful than I ever could have imagined. And I don’t just mean that we maintained contact, or that we’ve gotten to know each other so well. I don’t just mean that we’ve been essentially dating, and even having what I firmly believe amounts to a healthy sex life._
> 
> _I mean that I have fallen hopelessly in love with you. It’s been years since the last time I was in love with anyone, and even now, I question how much of that was love, and how much was just infatuation with a woman who knew she was using me. But this, what I feel, is certainly, truly love._
> 
> _I need to know how you feel. I know how impossible it might be that you might feel the same way, but I’d rather risk losing what we have if it means gaining something even more incredible. I cannot keep doing this, exchanging letters back and forth, when I desperately want to hold you in my arms and kiss you madly and tell you how happy I am that you’re in my life._
> 
> _And now I have to leave for London, and spend several days unable to run up to your door and profess my feelings for you. But, my love, I cannot wait any longer. I have to tell you, before I leave, so I have to do it here, on paper, instead of speaking the words aloud in front of you._
> 
> _I love you._
> 
> _Tomorrow (for you; the distant future, for me) I shall come to your door and finally show you who I am. I can only hope that our first true meeting is the opposite of all of the nightmares I’ve had about it._
> 
> _Love,  
> _ _With love,  
> _ _With all my love,  
> _ _Thank god I can finally close a letter like this,  
> _ _Your Captain_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for how long this chapter is, and for how much of it is repeated from With Affection. Still, I hope you enjoyed it, and I'd love to know what you think!


	11. Chapter Eleven

Jetlag worsened Killian’s already foul mood. His flight had been awful; whichever passengers hadn’t been insufferably rude had been irritatingly filled with the holiday spirit. More irked than ever regarding Christmas, he was in no mood to hear anyone talk excitedly about their plans with their families. To top everything off, he’d been seated next to a crying infant, and while its parents had been appropriately apologetic, that didn’t stop the poor babe from screaming for half the flight.

He’d hastily taken a Benadryl tablet at takeoff, but it had done him no good thanks to the amount of noise on the flight. And of course, it left him so groggy upon his arrival at Heathrow that once he’d cleared customs, he took a quick nap at one of the gates before heading to find his rental car.

Once he reached his hotel room, he quickly called Belle, who informed him that she had let Graham and Jefferson know of his predicament, and asked whether or not Swan had called him. It had taken him several minutes to get her off the phone once he admitted he had _not_ in fact given her any of his contact information; it was only when Wendy tried to call him that he convinced Belle to leave him alone on the subject. Unfortunately, he had to end the call before he could explain that he _had_ left Swan with _something;_ he hoped that Belle wouldn’t show up at Swan’s door herself with an explanation.

And then, _of course,_ Wendy was frustrated to hear that he wouldn’t be heading to the hospice immediately. He tried to explain that at this point, he’d been awake for nearly twenty-four hours and was not fit for anything besides a nap, but she’d simply grown cross and handed the phone off to her brother, John.

John, while much more level-headed about the situation, was just as frustrated that Killian wasn’t already on his way to see his father. “Killian, I don’t know if Wendy made it clear or not, but this is something that’s going to happen extremely soon. And with the limited holiday hours, if you don’t get down here before the end of the afternoon, he might pass before you get a chance.”

“John, I tried to explain to Wendy, I’m in no shape to drive there right now.”

“I thought you had public transit in the States.”

“I don’t have a damn Oyster Card anymore, John.”

“God, Killian, then just get a cab. You _do_ know how to catch a cab, don’t you?”

He grimaced in frustration. “I already spent the money on a rental car,” he began, but John cut him off.

“This is disrupting our lives, too, and you don’t hear us complaining about costs.” Killian bit his tongue to avoid reminding John that he knew for a fact the hospice wasn’t costing any of them a cent. “Now look, man, I know your father is persona non grata after all the shit he put the family through, but he’s still family, and you _know_ how Wendy is about that. Just get your arse down here and stop whinging about it.” And then he hung up.

He wanted to scream. He wanted to throw his phone against the wall and watch in satisfaction as it shattered (it probably wouldn’t shatter entirely, though the screen probably would). He wanted to get right back in his rental car, back to the airport, back to the States. He shouldn’t have come in the first place.

But no: the Darlings had taken care of him for those two years after Liam had died, and he was never going to get out of that debt. He called down to the front desk to arrange for a cab, went to the lavatory to splash water in his face, and then headed downstairs.

“Oh, good,” John said as Killian approached him at the hospice. “I told you it wouldn’t be that hard.”

Killian had no reply, and fortunately did not need one as Michael Darling came striding down the hall. “Killian! Mate, how’ve you been?”

“Er, better,” he replied.

Michael chuckled. “Stupid question, I suppose.”

“I suppose. I’ve been doing well, though. You?”

“Can’t complain, can’t complain.”

“Is he here?” Wendy came out of the room they were huddled outside of. She looked nearly the same as she had when she was twenty-three years old, when Killian had last seen her, waving goodbye to him as he’d gotten into a cab to Heathrow on his way to the States for university. The only indication that fifteen years had passed were the fine lines on her face and the gray at her roots. “Thanks for coming, Killian.”

He resisted the urge to point out that he had not _wanted_ to come, not at any point, and so to thank him as though he’d selflessly come rushing to his father’s bedside was infuriating. Instead, he mentally reminded himself that there was no use arguing. “I’m not sure what you want me to do,” he said instead.

“He’s not lucid right now,” said a nurse, who’d followed Wendy out of the room. We’ve got visiting hours till three o’clock today, though, so if you stick around for a couple more hours, you might be able to talk to him.”

Killian meant to speak up, to tell the nurse that it was fine and he’d just come back another time, but Wendy spoke first. “Thank you, we’ll stay. Would it be better for Killian to sit in the room with him, or should we go to the waiting room?”

The nurse seemed to realize something that the situation was a bit fraught. “Uh, well, what would you like to do, sir?” she asked, directing the question to him. He hesitated: his honest answer was that he would like to be anywhere else on the planet besides this hospice, but he knew that anything that wasn’t agreement with Wendy would be poorly received by his cousins. Instead, he opted for a middle ground.

“What are your hours tomorrow and the day after?”

“Noon till three on Christmas,” she said, smiling a little. “Gives people some time with their loved ones without asking staff to miss their Christmas mornings or dinners. Boxing Day, we’re back to our regular hours.”

He felt validated, hearing the hours and seeing Wendy’s expression towards John, who winced. “Thank you, miss. Is there someone I can leave my phone number with? I’ll plan to come by Saturday, but if he starts to fade, I’d like to know.”

“Of course.” The nurse seemed surprised that he was even asking. He followed her to the front desk where he made the arrangements, while the Darlings went to the lobby to wait for him.

“I’m sorry, I really _did_ think they’d have more limited hours,” John insisted. But even without Michael rolling his eyes and Wendy looking guiltily at the floor, Killian would have known he was bluffing.

“You sounded quite convinced, mate,” he said darkly.

“You’re really not going to see him?” Wendy interrupted, changing the subject. Now, of course, it was about how he was a disrespectful son, instead of about how John had deliberately misled him.

“Wendy, stop it,” Michael said.

“He’s his _father,_ he might not have another chance!”

“I said I would come back Saturday,” he protested angrily.

“He was _right there_ in that room, and you didn’t even peek your head in!”

“Wendy, stop it,” Michael said again.

“You’re just sore because he tried to steal from you,” John cut in.

“Bloody hell, John, it’s not as though the man did it by accident.”

“Stop it!” Killian hadn’t meant to shout, and he garnered some disapproving looks from nearby nursing and support staff, as well as a few other people in the waiting room. “This is all pointless bullshit. I don’t want to see him right now, so I _won’t._ I’m coming back Saturday, and if that doesn’t satisfy you, then enjoy being left unsatisfied. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m leaving. Happy Christmas.”

He managed to hail a cab, and he had the driver drop him off at a grocery store near his hotel. He had no plans to cook (impossible, anyway, given that his hotel room had a fridge but no microwave), but it would be cheaper to have some snack food in the hotel room than to venture out for each and every meal. And given how miserable he was, he knew he’d hardly have an appetite all week anyway.

He also stopped by a liquor store for wine, rye whiskey, and Angostura bitters. He wouldn’t be able to stay up as late as he’d need to in order to watch _Home Alone_ or _It’s a Wonderful Life_ at the same time that Swan might do so, but he would still try. He needed it for _him._ To pretend that everything was all right, and that he was still enjoying his plans with his beloved.

His _beloved._ He loved her.

After returning to the hotel room, he made sure to put everything away as neatly as possible: alcohol and perishables in the mini-fridge, non-perishables on the desk next to his laptop and electronics, and his toiletries in the bathroom. He hung up the suit he’d thought to bring (just in case), but otherwise, his clothing remained in his suitcase. He wasn’t sure how long he’d be here, but putting his clothes in the drawers of the small bureau felt like admitting defeat, as though he’d planned to stay for a long while.

And he did not.

He called Belle after spending a few hours napping.

“So?”

“Happy Christmas Eve to you as well, love.”

“What happened? Come on, you hung up on me pretty quickly.”

“Wendy was calling to tell me to come down to the hospice.”

“Already? But you’d only just checked into your hotel.”

“She didn’t care.”

“Killian.”

“I know.”

“Did you go?”

“Did I have a choice?”

She let out a slow breath. “So … was it as bad as you’d feared?”

“I didn’t go in.”

He was expecting a reaction similar to the one he’d gotten when he’d admitted he hadn’t given Swan his phone number or email. But instead, Belle replied: “I don’t think I would have either.”

“He wasn’t lucid anyway,” he added. “At least, according to the nurse.”

“Do you think you’ll go back?”

“I don’t know. I said I’d come on Saturday. Gave them my number in case he got drastically worse.”

“Killian, what’s going on, exactly?” Before he could reply, she clarified. “I mean, not with your father. With your cousins.”

“They just …” He sighed heavily. His head still felt as though it were stuffed with wood chips now that he’d taken a nap, and it was hard to articulate himself. “My family was always very big on obligations. Wendy especially was raised that way. It’s difficult for them to see me _not_ wanting to patch things up with … well, you know.”

“There’s no right answer,” she said reassuringly. “Whatever you need to do, you should do. I’m not going to tell you that you’ll forever regret trying to see him or talk to him. Because in the end, it doesn’t matter. It won’t change the past.”

“No, it won’t.” His eyes felt hot; he changed the subject. “Anyway, are you looking forward to Elsa’s party tomorrow?”

She chuckled. “As much as I can. Anna’s going to be so disappointed to hear that you’re no longer an eligible bachelor for her to set Elsa up with.”

“You didn’t already tell her?” But he was chuckling.

“Speaking of which,” she said, segueing immediately into the conversation he’d hoped to avoid. “So you didn’t leave your contact info? Why not?”

“I—” He had no idea how to bring up what he’d done.

“Killian?”

“I can’t explain, but I’ve done something that might not endear her to Killian Jones, apartment 305,” he said finally. Maybe he’d eventually explain what had happened, but he was unwilling to do so today.

“What? What the hell did you do?”

“Calm down. It wasn’t anything terrible. Just enough that … look, I’m already rather stressed, as you can tell. But rest assured, I did not leave her with nothing, or with no idea what’s become of me. She knows I’m home dealing with my father’s death.”

“Okay, sorry.” He could tell that she was trying very hard to let the subject drop. “I’m sorry. I trust your judgment with your own relationship.”

“Thank you.”

“When do you think you’ll be home?”

“I’ve a flight that should get me back to Boston by early evening on January 1st. I’ll let you know if something comes up and I have to stay later. I’m going to settle as much as I can before I leave, though. Honestly, there can’t be all _that_ much to be done. The man has _nothing.”_ His throat suddenly felt very tight. “It’s not as though he has a will or assets. I suppose I’ll just need to handle whatever debts he has and then be done with it.”

“That sounds reasonable. Just keep me posted. Shall we talk tomorrow?”

“Maybe.” He wasn’t sure he’d be in a mood to talk to _anyone_ tomorrow. “Thanks for letting me talk about all this.”

“Of course. I love you, you know. In a friend way.”

He chuckled. “And I you, love. Have a lovely Christmas.”

“You, too.”

He didn’t. He polished off the whole bottle of wine while watching _Home Alone_ that evening, and after making one Old Fashioned the following evening, he drank the rest of the whiskey straight from the bottle as he watched _It’s a Wonderful Life._ He missed his home bar, which was waiting for him with his favorite rye whiskey, and brown sugar cubes.

He missed Swan.

_Emma._

He loved her.

He held that feeling in his chest as he arrived at the hospice on Boxing Day, as though it were a protective spell. A very understanding hospice worker sat down with him and went over all of the end-of-life information he would need. He was pleased to find that besides a few small debts that needed to be settled (which he could do the next day, very easily), there wasn’t much that needed to be taken care of. Just as he’d told Belle, his father had no will or assets—nothing to his name except his debts and the destruction he’d left in his wake in his personal life.

To his surprise, and dismay, his father had several friends (barflies, the lot of them) who were asking about whether or not there might be a funeral. But he had enough saved up that he didn’t care about the expense: whatever it took to make this nightmare end, he’d pay. And then he’d finally be free of his past.

He’d resolved to leave after the meeting, but then a nurse poked his head into the room. “Excuse me, you’re Edward Jones’ son?”

His heart sank. “Yes?”

He cleared his throat. “I just wanted to let you know, your father is conscious and lucid right now. If you want a chance to talk to him, this might be it.”

He didn’t move right away, his body locked up with indecision. But then he thought of Swan.

He would return home and face her in person for the first time. Did he want to arrive home to tell her that he’d never even _seen_ his father, that he’d essentially left her behind for nothing?

No. He needed to face his fears. He couldn’t leave his love behind only to hide in a hotel room for a week. She would want him to be courageous, and so he would be. He felt his love burning in his chest as he stood and followed the nurse.

Had he not known the man in the bed was his father, he would never have guessed. His vague memories of Edward Jones had been of a man who’d looked so similar to Liam, with brown curls and an easy, wide smile. This man’s hair was limp and gray, his face wrinkled and gaunt, and his skin tinged yellow with jaundice. But no, this was his father. Bleary eyes met his own.

“Didn’t think you’d come.” His voice was slurred, as though he were still drunk. It was his voice that was still recognizable; there hadn’t been a time when it had sounded any differently.

“I didn’t think I would either,” Killian replied, happy to be able to be honest.

“Better you than Killian.”

He blinked in confusion. “What?”

“Your brother was always too sensitive for his own good. Probably still pissed at me.”

Liam. He thought he was talking to _Liam._ Killian didn’t know whether to be proud that he was being confused for his brother, or ashamed. “Probably,” he managed to croak out.

“I wasn’t going to get it right, you know.”

“I—I’m not sure I know what you mean.”

His father lifted his hand weakly, as though to wave away the subject. “Bloody bullshit, never mind. Look, it would never have worked out anyway. Better you than me.”

“For what?”

“Liam, always asking questions. Doesn’t bloody matter. You can tell him that.”

Tell him what, he wondered, but, as his father would say, it didn’t bloody matter: his father had lost consciousness.

As he left the hospice, a well-meaning nurse, the same one who’d called him to his father’s room in the first place, wished him happy holidays and said, “At least you got to talk to him,” as though that were cause for celebration.

The following morning, they called to tell him Edward Jones was dead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What a nice time Killian had in London, yeah? Let me know what you think of this chapter!


	12. Chapter Twelve

Killian stopped taking calls from the Darlings after the first day, even from Michael, who had succumbed to the pressure he was facing from his siblings. He knew what they wanted: they wanted him to order flowers, to schedule the reception, to stay for the damn funeral itself. Never mind that he’d arranged to have the bloody affair in the first place, as requested.

Besides, the earliest he could schedule the funeral had been Sunday, two days after his booked return flight. Maybe if he could have arranged for it to occur sooner, he would consider going. But to stay longer than planned, for a funeral he had no desire to attend? No.

The rest of the week flew by. He found himself a little alarmed at the relief he felt. He wondered if he should feel more saddened by his father’s passing—as Wendy would say, the man _was_ his father, after all, and now he was gone from this world. There should be a hole in his heart, shouldn’t there?

Instead, there was a weight lifted from him. His father’s death was no longer a looming deadline he was dreading; it had happened, and he had weathered the storm, and now it was over. There was just the intense pressure to get the hell out of London and go _home._

He did have a new fear, though: Swan’s reaction when he finally showed up at her door. Until he’d received Wendy’s phone call regarding his father, meeting in person had been a figurative situation. He’d of _course_ assumed it would eventually happen, but without any sort of specific plan, it wasn’t ever anything to panic over. And when he’d left for London, although he’d already promised that he would reveal his identity upon arriving home, the errand for which he’d left the States was the first thing on his mind. First, deal with his father, _then_ go to Swan. And now that the first step was complete, it was as though he was finally realizing that he was about to go home and meet the love of his life.

And so he slept terribly. His recurring nightmare of Liam’s death was back full force, although now it varied, as though his imagination were trying to torture him. In one version, his father actively drowned Liam, and in another, he himself pushed his brother below the surface of the water.

But a new nightmare plagued him as well. He’d spoken somewhat figuratively when he’d mentioned, in his final letter to Swan, that he’d had nightmares about how poorly their first meeting might go. In truth, he’d kept himself up late more than once, worrying about how angry she’d might be with him for asking her on that date. His dreams themselves had been mercifully devoid of such a stressful scenario.

Until now, that is. When his dreams weren’t filled with Liam’s death, they were instead filled with a livid Swan screaming obscenities at him, lobbing accusations, and even sometimes throwing things at him (what things, he wasn’t clear on, due to the fuzzy nature of the dreamscape, although once he did clearly dream that she threw the little turtle-shaped massage tool that Jefferson had gotten him three years ago as a gag gift). Or Swan coldly shutting the door in his face, after telling him he wasn’t what she wanted. Or Swan running across the street into his arms … and then suddenly he was back on that boat, and she was slipping underneath the dark waves.

At six o’clock in the morning on New Year’s Eve, he could no longer take it. He checked out of his hotel early, drove to the airport, and put himself on standby for the next flight home to Boston.

Where his love waited.

He checked his watch; it was nearing noon here in London, which meant she was probably still sleeping back at home. Would she read his letter first thing? Would she read it before or after work? Would she wait until midnight? If he did manage to get home before the ball dropped, should he go to her immediately?

He was a bloody coward; he should have just given her his email in the first place. He’d been so foolish—of _course_ she would have been understanding, or at least waited until he was home and safe to deal with his invitation to drinks that day in the laundry room. Swan cared deeply for him (or maybe she loved him, he thought, before shoving that idea away); she would at _least_ give him the benefit of the doubt, wouldn’t she? He had been cruel to both of them by not simply trusting her.

Around two o’clock, he learned that there was space on the next one-way flight, which would return him to Boston around seven o’clock, if there were no significant delays. He quickly phoned Belle, whom he knew would be awake.

“How’re you holding up? Will you still be coming home tomorrow?”

“I think I’m getting a standby flight in an hour or so.”

“Killian, that’s great! So you’ll be home tonight?”

“I should be. Barring any more unfortunate events.”

“Any _more?_ He couldn’t have died twice.”

He chuckled. “No, I just mean, if all goes smoothly.”

“Well, that’s good. I’m actually about to do some early morning grocery shopping. Preparing for tonight and all. I’ll drop off some food at your place, and get the rest of your mail.”

“Belle!”

“Oh, as if your protestations could stop me. Have they ever before?”

“Just don’t go overboard.”

“Please.”

“Thank you.”

“It’s no problem. I assume you’ll be too tired tonight to celebrate with us?” She was referring to their annual New Year’s plans, when all four of them would get together at someone’s apartment for an entertaining night in, away from the revelers on the T.

“Sorry, but yes, I’ll probably be entirely wiped out. I’ll give you a call tomorrow, though.”

“Give me one when you land, and when you’re safe at home,” she said firmly. “And Killian?”

“Yes?”

“Have a safe flight.”

He did have a safe flight, though once again, his sleep aid refused to kick in. At least his flight was filled with quietly stressed travelers who clearly were holiday-ed out and ready to get home to rest. By seven o’clock, his flight had touched down on American soil, and in a daze, he deplaned and made his way to customs.

All the while, he could only focus on one thing: getting home to Swan.

He was trembling as he got off the T (it was simply ludicrous how expensive it would be to call a cab or use a car service on New Year’s Eve) and walked towards the complex. He felt decades older, as though it had been years since he’d been home. The mental reminder that in a few days, he’d need to return to work, nagged at him from the corner of his mind, and he shoved it to the side. Work didn’t matter. Only Swan mattered right now.

He greeted Billy as he stepped into the lobby, but didn’t stay for small talk as he normally would. Even if Swan hadn’t been on his mind, jetlag left him feeling like one of the undead; he was certainly not fit for conversation.

As he stepped off the elevator and began the final leg of his trip to his flat, his eyes automatically found Swan’s doormat. It was habit now, checking her doormat, although even if it hadn’t been, it would have been difficult to miss the comically large stack of notes squeezed underneath it, and the small box that had fallen to the side. What had she done?

He approached slowly, and as he did, he heard uncontrollable laughter coming from inside the flat. When he was at the door, he could hear Swan’s voice, shaking with laughter as she recited obscenities, which were then drowned out by her friends’ guffaws and giggles.

That’s right, he remembered. She’d mentioned that she liked to host a get-together with her friends for New Year’s Eve. This would be a terrible time for him to show up unannounced. Even if she wanted to see him, he wasn’t sure he wanted their first meeting to be his first meeting with her friends as well.

But he _did_ know that the yellow notes and the little box were for him; who else would they be for? He scooped them all up and shoved them in the front pocket of his suitcase so he could fumble for his keys and _finally_ get into his flat.

He was finally home. London was officially a sour memory. The ordeal had ended.

It took him ten minutes to unpack: Swan’s letters and gift went on the coffee table, phone and charger went into the bedroom, dirty clothes went in the hamper, his suit went in the corner of his closet designated for dry cleaning, and his dopp kit went in the storage closet in the bathroom. He grabbed all of the paperwork from London, as well as his laptop and cord and went to the den.

He groaned when he saw the pile of gifts on his desk; of _course_ Belle couldn’t have been trusted to simply deliver his mail (she had; it was neatly stacked beside the gifts).

Presents would have to wait for a moment, though; he wanted to enjoy himself as he opened them, and that wouldn’t be possible in his current state. He quickly shucked off his clothes and showered thoroughly, as though he could wash away the plane ride. Once he was dressed in pajamas, he went back to his desk, carried the mail and gifts out to the coffee table, and began to sort through his loot.

The mail was mostly junk, but Belle, bless her heart, saved it anyway. Into the recycling went the fliers, and into the shredder went the credit card offers. The holiday cards from clients and coworkers went into a stack, pushed to the corner of the desk, in case they asked him what he thought; he’d toss them by the end of the winter. What little mail was left consisted of a few notices from work and the marina; everything else was electronic and had already popped into his inbox while he was in London.

And now, he could enjoy gifts.

First, from Jefferson, a fine cashmere hat and matching scarf of extremely high quality. The man really did run an excellent hat shop. And from Grace, a baseball cap that read _Captain_ on the front. He put them in his closet with his other hats; thanks to Jefferson, he himself was starting to amass quite the collection.

Graham had gotten him an extremely nice bottle of Glenmorangie. Killian managed to lift his jaw off the floor once he located the card and found that it was a gift from both Graham _and_ Merida, whom he still hadn’t met. Well, the lass had already made _quite_ a good impression. He’d have to run out and find her something appropriate in return. Into the bar it went; he wished he could sample some tonight, but it would be bad form to drink it before he thanked the gift-givers.

And from Belle, of course, he’d received books. But Belle never got him just _any_ books. True to form, she’d gotten him three different tomes: first, non-fiction she thought he’d find engaging; next, literary fiction that was critically acclaimed in some fashion (which, of course, she’d vetted already); and finally an older copy of a classic. He quickly put Mary Roach, Patricia Park, and Jane Austen on his shelves.

Finally, there was the little box from Swan. It looked like the sort of small, cardboard box jewelry might come in, and was tied shut with a bit of twine. He tugged it open and lifted up the lid.

Inside sat a necklace, with a set of pirate charms strung on it. He let out a chuckle, which, in his overly tired state, almost sounded like a sob. How well she knew him! He’d been complaining to her about wishing it were more acceptable for men to wear jewelry, and she’d remembered his fondness for swashbuckling pirates. It was an unbelievably thoughtful gift.

He knew his philosophy … to not use a gift until the giver had been thanked. But this was different, surely, especially since she was hopefully already wearing _his_ gift to her. After fumbling with the tiny clasp for a few minutes, he finally gave up and lifted it over his head instead. Fortunately, the chain was long enough, and within moments, he had his pirate necklace properly around his neck.

Now, what else had she left for him? He looked at the folded pieces of paper spread out in front of him. In the faint light of his flat—he’d only turned on a few lights since walking in the door—he could see some writing on some of them. He grabbed the nearest one: _12/28._ The next: _12/23._ Then _12/29_ and _12/30_ together.

She’d written him back. He carefully ordered them—one for each day, like the ones he’d left for her.

But there wasn’t a letter for today. Certainly she hadn’t forgotten, not if she’d replied to every single one of his letters. Perhaps she was saving his last one until tomorrow? What had he written in that last one again?

Oh. Only that he loved her. His stomach felt as though it had fallen into his feet.

Well, he might as well get started. If he was going to try to actually _talk_ to her tomorrow, he needed to at least know what she’d written to him. He settled into the couch as comfortably as he could and opened the letter labeled _12/23_ , the day he’d left.

> _My dear Captain,_
> 
> _I am so sorry about your father. Even if he is/was a selfish bastard, that doesn’t mean that this isn’t a hard time for you. I hope that your trip home is as painless as it can be, and that you’re still able to enjoy the holidays. Maybe it’s better that our Christmas plans are cancelled, since I might have to work anyway. But it’s really not better because it’ll probably make me miss you more._
> 
> _And I already miss you one hell of a lot. I know it’s just for a week and a half, but this is already so much worse than Thanksgiving was. And if_ I’m _this disappointed, I can’t imagine what_ you’re _going through right now._
> 
> _Look, I know this is really stupid because you’re going to get these letters all at once, but screw it. I’m going to reply to every single one of these letters and give them all to you when you get back. I can’t think of anything else I can do._
> 
> _I know I should just be looking forward to seeing you—really,_ really _seeing you—when you get back, and I really am, but this just isn’t fair. I want you here_ now _. Nine days is clearly too long._
> 
> _I’ll forgive you for leaving if you’ll forgive me for being incredibly sullen and moody like a teenager._
> 
> _Missing you very much already,  
> _ _Your Princess_

He found himself actually tearing up in relief, just reading her note. He was a fool, a _damned_ fool, for not just giving her his email address, and depriving them of each other’s company and comfort. Here was everything he had missed: her genuine concern, her sincerity, and her humor. Knowing that he wasn’t alone in missing her, that she had been just as devastated, meant so much. Bleary-eyed, he reached for the next letter.

> _My Captain,_
> 
> _I did get my work done, although that doesn’t mean I’m not going to get a phone call tomorrow. I’d rather stay home and miss you than go to work and miss you, so I’m keeping my fingers crossed._
> 
> _I hope I never get dumped on Christmas._  

He laughed. If she would have him, he could guarantee it would never happen.

> _I hope I never get dumped on Christmas. That sounds awful. I was about to ask you what happened, but you won’t get this letter for several more days. So I guess I’ll have to wait to ask. Or maybe you’ll answer my question in one of the other letters. I haven’t opened any letters early. I know you’d never know if I did, but I want to do this the right way, you know?_
> 
> _You certainly haven’t ruined Christmas for me. I actually grew up in the foster system, so a lot of the time, I was in group homes for Christmas, and I rarely got any gifts. Or gave any gifts. Meeting my sister—adoptive sister, obviously—was life-changing in that way; now gift-giving is a huge thing with me. That’s why I was so eager to exchange gifts with you. For me, giving gifts is a way of showing someone that you know them, and that you care about them._
> 
> _But I don’t decorate or anything like that. No Christmas tree. I don’t send Christmas cards. I don’t go caroling or whatever. I don’t do ugly sweater parties, or use green and red wrapping paper. I hate eggnog. You think_ you’re _the Scrooge?_
> 
> _Please tell me that I’m not absolutely nuts for thinking that it’s wonderful that neither of us is that big on Christmas. Please tell me that I’m not ridiculous for taking it as a sign of compatibility. Well, please just come home so you can tell me anything at all._
> 
> _Your Scrooge-in-crime (partner in Scrooging?),  
> _ _Your Princess_

Foster care? Bloody hell. No _wonder_ she was so aloof. That sort of exterior would be extraordinarily necessary if she’d been in the system. But it made her relationship with her family even more meaningful, that she could be so close to them having grown up on her own.

Would she tell him more in the other letters? Even so: _foster care._ That was _so_ much to entrust him with. Perhaps … he wasn’t alone in his feelings? He rubbed at his face—what time was it?—before opening the next note.

> _My dear Captain,_
> 
> _I spent last night watching_ Home Alone _and drinking wine; I fully intend to watch_ It’s a Wonderful Life _while drinking an Old Fashioned tonight. When we’re together, we can watch and drink something else._
> 
> _I also very, very much enjoyed both of your gifts. Thank you so much for the necklace. It’s really beautiful. And, of course, I’m always thankful for a very satisfying fuck. How you could possibly know what will feel so good when you’ve never touched me is something I’ll never understand. But I definitely appreciate it._
> 
> _I hope that you like your gift (go open it or I’m about to spoil it for you!). I know how you hate that it’s not socially acceptable for guys to wear jewelry, so I made sure to find a necklace that’s long enough that you could tuck it into your shirt. And if people see the chain, you can just lie and says it’s a cross or something. Skull and crossbones … cross … close enough. A captain who’s such a fan of pirates must be a pirate captain, after all._
> 
> _My parting gift to you won’t be as amazing as your second gift to me, if only because, by the time you’re reading this, we’ll be together. But I just want you to imagine, for a moment, what it would have felt like if I’d had you inside me instead of my much-too-small vibrator. Because that’s definitely what I was imagining. Is it January 1st yet?_
> 
> _Have a wonderful Christmas (hope you had a wonderful Christmas),  
> _ _Your Princess_

He woke suddenly, Swan’s letter plastered to his face. He’d been having an odd dream in which he’d been goofing off with his friends in his office, when someone had begun banging on the door. The sound of fist pounding on wood had startled him awake.

But it wasn’t stopping. Someone was _actually_ knocking on his door quite forcefully, though it was clearly still in the middle of the night. He quickly and carefully pulled the letter from his skin and left it on the couch before stumbling to the door. How long had he been asleep? And who the _bloody hell_ was disturbing him at this hour?

He pulled open the door to find _Swan._

Was he imagining things? Why was she here? There were tears streaming down her face—had she figured out it was him? Was she happy to see him?

Who _cared?_ It was _her._ “Swan,” he croaked in relief.

“I was a _dare?”_

What?

“All of this was a _dare?”_ She was holding a piece of paper, which she promptly crumpled into a ball and threw at him; it hit him square in the chest and ricocheted back into the hallway.

Not tears of joy—tears of _anger._ Over a dare?

“No, wait, what are you—”

Oh. Shit—he’d told her about the dare.

“You are _horrible,”_ she continued. Her words was heavily slurred, and he could suddenly smell the alcohol on her breath. “I should _never_ have answered your stupid letters! This whole time, I was telling you all these things, and you were just _fucking_ with me!”

“No, that’s not true!” How could she even say that? She’d read the letter—she _must_ know that wasn’t true!

“Then why did you ask me out?” she asked angrily. “Last month, in the laundry room?” And there it was: the whole reason he’d left her without contact information. And it had all gone to shit anyway. ”Was that going to be your ultimate ‘I told you so?’ So you could ‘prove’ that I would have said no if you hadn’t left the notes? So you could ‘prove’ that you really had me wrapped around your little finger?”

“I made a _mistake,”_ he said, trying to interrupt. He just needed to _explain—_

 _“This_ was a mistake.” He could feel the fire that had burned so brightly in his chest begin to flicker out as she reached up to the necklace she wore around her neck. It was the one he’d given her. And she was trying to rid herself of it.

“Swan, please don’t,” he pleaded, as she gave up on the clasp and pulled it over her head. He quickly shifted out of the way as she flung it at him, and it went soaring into his flat.

“I _hate_ you _,”_ she said, her voice cracking. Fresh tears spilled down her cheeks. “Don’t _ever_ talk to me again.” And she stormed off, back to her apartment, without giving him a second glance.

His body wouldn’t move at first; he felt as though everything within him had simply fled, leaving a shell behind. The woman he loved had just rejected him. She knew how he felt, and it hadn’t mattered. He’d imagined that if they encountered an obstacle, even one he’d unthinkingly set up, they would be able to discuss it and work around it. But he’d been wrong. He’d made a mistake and paid dearly for it.

He stepped back into his flat and picked up the necklace, which had almost made it to the living room area. Both the jewelry and the floor where it had landed were undamaged, and he lifted up the pendant to observe it. It was even more lovely than it had appeared online when he’d bought it, the swan centered as though it were part of a wax seal. He recalled how he’d felt when he’d found it, how perfect it had been, and how much he hoped she would like it.

What else had she thrown? He ventured back into the hallway to find the paper she’d wadded up. Back inside, he brought it to the first available surface—his kitchen counter—and flattened it.

It was the packing slip from the necklace. Of course: it had been in the packing envelope along with the gift. And right there, for anyone to see, were his name and address. He might was _well_ have given her his contact information from the start: she’d known who he was since Christmas, apparently.

This was a bloody fucking mess, that was for sure.

He was shaking. What should he do? What _could_ he do? Follow her back and demand to talk?

But what good would _that_ do? She was clearly distraught and, unless he was imagining things, at least moderately intoxicated. And he himself was barely able to see straight, at least partially due to exhaustion. How could he even possibly explain himself?

His left hand hurt, as it did whenever he overused it. Why? He’d forgotten that he was still clutching Swan’s necklace, to the point where the swan in the pendant had left an indentation in his palm.

He fell asleep sometime after two o’clock, the necklace still in his hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully, the ending of this chapter isn't as painful as the ending of the corresponding chapter in WA ... at least because you already know how it ends. Maybe? Let me know what you think!
> 
> Folks have expressed curiosity about what his father was talking about in the last chapter. I'm going to be evasive about answering your questions, but the dialogue isn't random.
> 
> Credit for Killian dreaming of Emma throwing the turtle-shaped massage tool goes to optomisticgirl.


	13. Chapter Thirteen

Killian awoke in darkness, momentarily unsure of where he was. But after a few minutes, it came back to him: he’d come home yesterday, he’d fallen asleep reading Swan’s letters, and then Swan herself had come over and—

Well, and shown him just how much his mistakes had hurt her.

He was a bloody wanker, that was for sure. He’d strung her along for two months, refusing to meet, denying her that one thing she asked for. It had been crucial for him—would he have been able to fall in love otherwise?—but meanwhile, what about what had been crucial for _her?_

How could he profess to love this woman if he couldn’t treat her as an equal partner?

Asking her out had been the worst mistake, surely, but mentioning Jefferson’s dare …. He _could_ claim that he’d been so stressed and upset over the news that his father was dying and that he would have to leave her behind, he’d simply written the comment without thinking. But he was a man who said what he meant and felt; he had written about the dare intentionally, with the hopes that she would appreciate how different things were now.

All the while, he’d never thought that perhaps his love for her would not be enough to make up for the things he had asked of her, or the things he had put her through.

Wallowing in bed all day would be a terrible way to start the new year; he forced himself to get up.

As he did, something fell to the floor. It was Swan’s necklace; he’d fallen asleep holding it. He placed it on his nightstand, almost reverently, unsure of what else to do with it.

His phone, which he’d forgotten to plug in, let him know that it wasn’t quite eight o’clock in the morning. He chuckled, impressed that he’d slept so late given that his body believed it to be nearly one o’clock in the afternoon. It was a testament to how exhausted he’d been, clearly. He grabbed the phone and its cord in his right hand, while painfully flexing his left, and went into the living room; typically he charged his phone in the bedroom, but unless he planned to spend the entire day in there, he’d need to make an exception.

Fatigue still pulled at him, reminding him that a single night could not erase severe emotional turmoil or jetlag. Coffee was certainly in order, and once he’d gotten his phone squared away and plugged in, he made his way into the kitchen.

He stared at the packing slip as he waited for his caffeine. It was strange: if she’d known his identity since Christmas, why would she bring the slip with her to yell at him? He was a little disappointed that, if she knew who he was, she hadn’t managed to find a way to contact him. Bloody hell, a quick internet search would bring up his profile and email on the law firm’s website.

It would have to remain a mystery, at least for now.

He stirred some half-and-half into his coffee and wandered back over to the couch; her letters were still scattered all over the table. Perhaps he should finish reading them? Was he that much of a masochist?

It was the least he could do, he supposed. If she truly never wanted to speak to him again, this would be the last he’d ever hear from her. It was something to be treasured and valued—of course he would read them.

The first three, he skimmed, refreshing his hazy memories from the night before. He noticed that there was no indication in her Christmas letter that she’d read the packing slip. It still made little sense, but he continued on. 

> _My dear Captain,_
> 
> _I can understand picking your career for personal reasons. My history in foster care is why I’m actually a social worker. I feel like it’s the least I can do, you know? Help kids the way I wished I could be helped._
> 
> _Obviously, it can be really difficult emotionally. Whenever a placement falls through, or a kid runs away, or a foster family has to call it quits, it really feels like a personal failure. I know it’s not—at least, logically, I know it’s not—but it’s still so hard. But it’s the personal investment that makes it worth getting up in the morning._
> 
> _That break-up sounds really horrible. To be honest, I really doubt that she_ didn’t _know you were in deep. I mean, you’re obviously a romantic. I’ve never even spoken to you face to face, but it’s just plain obvious._  

He smiled sadly—so she _hadn’t_ known at this point who he was. She clearly remembered speaking to _Killian_ face to face.

> _For her not to have known, I think she would have had to be actively in denial._
> 
> _My last break-up was actually … a week after you started leaving me notes. It was really a long time coming, so don’t feel bad (or proud!) that you ended my previous relationship. You really didn’t, although you definitely provided a little bit of a push. I was reading your note, which asked me if I was single or not, and I kept thinking that I really wished I was. So … well, I made that happen._
> 
> _He wasn’t a bad guy, but I was not the right person for him. He had all these ideas about what his significant other would be like, and it didn’t seem to occur to him that, if I didn’t match those ideas, maybe we shouldn’t be dating. Like, he wanted me to find a less demanding job, move into his house in the suburbs, give up all my interests he didn’t like, and pick up all of his. He routinely criticized my personal taste; he hated my doormat, for example. And he’d talk about the future like I’d already agreed to marry him and change everything about myself._
> 
> _I don’t know why I stayed with him as long as I did, when he made me so miserable. I’m not miserable anymore, that’s for sure._
> 
> _Seriously missing you,  
> _ _Your Princess_

“Oh, Swan.” There was no one around to hear him, but he felt as though he were speaking to her. The man’s behavior was absurd anyway; there was no point to being with someone if you didn’t like them as they were. But to know that this prat had felt that way about _Swan_ was infuriating. The man probably didn’t even know just how amazing the woman he’d lost truly was.

Killian knew.

> _My poor Captain,_
> 
> _I’d like to believe that whatever you’re feeling is the right away to feel. How could you_ not _be angry with your father? But how could you not want to be the bigger person? Whatever happens, this isn’t your doing or your fault. You are a good person in a terrible situation. How on earth could I possibly think less of you for telling me this?_
> 
> _I was about to write that I wished I could say I’d been in the same position, but the truth is, I really have no idea if I wish that. You have a chance to confront your father for what he did to you and your family, or maybe to get some kind of explanation. It’s been twenty-eight years and I still have no explanation. My parents abandoned me on the side of a highway in Maine. I think if I ever found out who they were, I’d probably just want to know why they couldn’t bother to leave me at a hospital or a shelter, or even on someone’s doorstep._

Bloody hell, truly?

> _Obviously, I’ve found some semblance of a happy ending. I met my best friend my first year of high school, and ended up being adopted by her—our—parents. They have never, ever done or said anything to make me feel unwanted, but there are days I still wonder._
> 
> _I know that this isn’t some sort of personal failing of mine. I’m not the one who abandoned an infant on the shoulder of a highway in a rural area. I’ve dedicated my life to helping kids who’re just like me. But I always have to wonder_ why _. Was I not good enough? Did my parents ever even want me in the first place? My friend T—the therapist—would suggest I have trouble believing that anyone could want me._
> 
> _Sometimes, I dream about confronting them and screaming at them for what they did to me. But I don’t think I’d do that for real. I’d probably pretend that I was just some random social worker and make up some sort professional reason for having to talk to them, and just hope they wouldn’t notice the resemblance and do the math. Sometimes, I’m not very brave._
> 
> _Yours if you want me,  
> _ _Your Princess_

 Of _course_ he wanted her. His face felt hot with anger, for making her believe that he _hadn’t_ wanted her.

> _My Captain_
> 
> _Well, the good news for you is that I have never noticed anyone in the building with scars on their left hand. I hope you’re okay with me being really unobservant, apparently._
> 
> _To be honest, when I got your first note, I wondered if you were my ex trying to put the spark back into the relationship. I assumed that was why the note was typed, because I’d recognize his handwriting. Once I figured out that you weren’t him (something that’s_ really _good, by the way), I kind of forgot to wonder about the notes being typed._
> 
> _All I can say about your hand at this point? I’m sorry that such a thing happened to you. You must have been scared and devastated when the injury first occurred, and even if you knew that a full recovery was a longshot, you must have still hoped for it. I can promise you that I won’t care about scars. Like, I won’t really even think about it either way._
> 
> _I suppose if you want to trade traumas …_
> 
> _I almost had to drop out of college when my first boyfriend dumped me. I’m so embarrassed now. I want to go back in time and find my twenty-year-old self and just shake some sense into her._
> 
> _My boyfriend just totally swept me off my feet. He was a rich city kid, who’d gone to private school and all that fancy shit. He just said all the right things that I needed to hear—I was beautiful, I was perfect, he wanted to do all sorts of crazy sex things to me._
> 
> _It was surreal after being in the foster system. No one ever treated me like I was beautiful or desirable. So I fell hard. You know, like ya do._
> 
> _But within a few months, it was just this epic struggle to hold onto him. He was bored of our sex life unless I tried more and more new things, things I wasn’t always comfortable with, and things that weren’t always pleasurable for me. He stopped wanting to spend time with me unless I made it extremely convenient. I felt like I was always auditioning for him, always trying to convince him that he should stay with me. When he finally broke things off, he said all sorts of nasty things about how foster care had made me weird and messed me up sexually, and how it was okay for him to mess around with a lost girl for a bit in college, but he was expected to bring home someone more like him._
> 
> _I basically stopped eating, stopped leaving my dorm room, stopped going to class. My parents had to call the dean and arrange counseling for me. I almost went on medical leave._
> 
> _Sometimes I worry that I’m never going to be able to lose myself in a relationship again, after what happened with my college ex. I’m glad I didn’t with my last ex; I was unhappy the whole time, and I’m glad I dumped him. But what I mean is, I don’t want to miss my chance when it’s right. I’m scared of missing out at the same time that I’m scared of even trying._
> 
> _I’m anxious about meeting you, not because I don’t_ want _to. But because I think I’ve already lost myself._
> 
> _Missing you so much,  
> _ _Your Swan_

He let out a frustrated sigh; how had this happened? He’d been _so_ sure of her affections, and as he read each of her letters, he only became _more_ convinced that she must love him back. How could she have reacted the way she had last night if she was, in fact, already lost? What could explain such a change?

> _My Captain,_
> 
> _I wish you were writing these letters in real time, in reply to mine. There’s so much I’ve shared with you already, and so much more I want to share. I want to answer your questions and ask so many of my own._
> 
> _I am 0% surprised about the name of your boat. Honestly, I haven’t been on the water much, besides a whale watch freshman year of college. There just never were a lot of opportunities. As for your nickname, I was mostly just overly proud of myself for accidentally picking out such a good nickname for you. I’m still proud of it, actually. Damn proud._
> 
> _Boston wasn’t that much of a choice for me, although it wasn’t like I didn’t want to come here. I grew up all over the damn country, but I started and ended in Maine. I would have stayed there (I’m glad I didn’t, for the record), but my sister was applying to colleges in Boston, and I didn’t want to be separated from her, so I did, too. You may have noticed the abundance of colleges here? Maybe? Possibly? We didn’t go to the same school, but we saw each other every weekend, and by the time college was wrapping up, we both refused to even consider leaving._
> 
> _My sister had a better reason for staying: she got engaged right after she graduated, and my brother-in-law graduated a year ahead of us and had already settled down with a job and apartment here. I also went straight to grad school for social work, so I was going to be here for another couple years anyway. Now there’s really no reason to leave: my sister is here and our parents are only a few hours away, and I’ve got a great group of friends. I like my job, and if that changes, there’s plenty else to do here._
> 
> _And to be honest? There’s something about this apartment building …_
> 
> _Patiently waiting,  
> _ _Your Swan_

He was overwhelmed with information as he tried to remember just what he had written to her almost two weeks ago. There was so much he’d hidden from her for so long, and he vaguely recalled pouring his heart out to her. He’d forgotten, or he supposed it had never occurred to him, that she might pour her heart out to him in return.

And she _was._ She was Emma Swan, a social worker, who came from Maine and settled in Boston. She was Emma Swan, who had been abandoned and then eventually adopted, whose past lovers had treated her in a way she never deserved. She was Emma Swan, who missed him, who wanted to talk to him, who understood him and accepted him.

Who told him never to speak to her again.

One more letter to go, and that maybe he could find some peace. 

> _My Captain,_
> 
> _Okay, so I didn’t lie earlier about my college break up. But I wasn’t telling you everything._
> 
> _My college ex would have dumped me at some point, but the reason why the break-up was even harder was because he did it after we found out I was pregnant._
> 
> _It wasn’t the only reason he dumped me, but it was sort of the catalyst. He thought I’d gotten pregnant on purpose to trap him, and said I was just another orphan who couldn’t break free from her upbringing. He said that my birth parents were probably dumb college kids who couldn’t handle a baby, and I was doing the same thing they did to me._
> 
> _After the break-up, I miscarried. I was maybe eight weeks or so when it happened, and I bled and cramped for days. I knew I wasn’t ready to be a mother—even now, I know I_ definitely _wasn’t ready. But it was overwhelming. I know miscarriage is common, but at the time, I just felt like a failure._
> 
> _I never told him that I miscarried. It happened after he dumped me; he still thinks that I terminated the pregnancy. I’m not sure if I would have; I definitely wouldn’t have raised the baby if I’d had it, but I don’t know if I could have handled the additional stigma of trying to get through college while pregnant._
> 
> _It was excruciating and horrific, and at the time, I thought that the whole combination of events—getting pregnant, getting dumped and having my heart broken, and then miscarrying—was probably the worst thing that could have ever happened to me. It’s still my most painful set of memories, and I’m still stunned that I managed to live through it all. But there are some silver linings. The pregnancy ended what was an incredibly unhealthy, damaging relationship. And the miscarriage saved me from having to make a decision about what to do. It also taught me a lot about birth control, but that’s beside the point._
> 
> _I know that this isn’t the same thing as losing your brother in that terrible accident. But we all have scars. We all have traumas. It’s okay._
> 
> _Still yours,  
> _ _Your Swan_

He wanted to hold her, to stroke her hair, to _thank_ her for sharing this piece of herself with him. For sharing _all_ of these pieces of herself—for trusting him with her past.

Liam’s words to him, repeated so often in his youth, rang in his head:

_A man unwilling to fight for what he wants deserves what he gets._

He wanted to be with her. He wanted to repair their relationship. He wanted to take her in his arms and tell her all the reasons he was a right arse, and all the ways she was too good to be true.

If he sat in his flat and did nothing, he would have nothing.

The short walk from his door to hers felt like the longest in his life.

He stood outside her door for several moments, unsure of whether or not she was even awake. He knew from their letters that she had a studio, which meant that unless she slept with earplugs or a white noise machine, she would likely wake if he knocked. It seemed rather rude to wake her up when she was already unhappy with him.

But then he heard, faintly, the sound of feet on tile and of cabinets opening and closing. When he heard what was unmistakably a coffee maker, he knew for sure that she was awake. He knocked.

There was no reply, or any other indication that she’d heard him. He knocked again, more deliberately. “Swan?” Now he heard what sounded like ceramic on countertop. “Swan, I’m sorry. I just want to talk.” Still no reply, but he could hear more activity in the kitchen. Was she ignoring him or pretending not to be home? “Love, I can hear the Keurig.”

All sound, save for the sound of the coffee maker, ceased. Bloody hell, was she really not going to reply? He sighed. Clearly, she was still angry with him. But that didn’t matter—he would fight for her anyway. “Okay. I’ll go. But I still want to talk. I’m going to go back to my apartment and stay there and wait for you until you’re ready. Okay?”

When there was _still_ no reply, he went back to his flat. There was no use in pushing her. He _would_ run into her eventually, as he had so many times before during the past year—nearly year and a half. He would find some way to talk to her, or at the very least make it clear that he was sorry and was willing to prove it. For now, there was nothing he could do, and so he would retreat.

He grabbed his coffee from where he’d left it on the coffee table; he’d only managed to take a couple of sips before becoming too engrossed in Swan’s letters to remember that he’d made it in the first place. He quickly dumped it out in the sink and began to make a fresh cup; it wouldn’t do to be groggy for the rest of the day, when it was barely ten o’clock.

He stirred some half-and-half into his fresh cup of coffee (too little this time, he realized as he tasted it, but he didn’t want to overcorrect) and sat at the dining table, mulling over his plans for the rest of the day. He would have to call his friends at some point, to thank them for their gifts, to wish them a happy New Year, and to update them. He’d contacted them all after his father had passed, and Belle had been given permission to update everyone regarding his return to the States, but he would need to tell them what was happening with Swan.

He was a reasonably private person, but they would know something was wrong as soon as they spoke to him. And, quite frankly, he didn’t want to have to go through this process alone. Either he’d need their support as he won her trust back, or he’d need it to get through the heartache that was sure to follow. But he preferred not to think about that.

Instead, his mind turned to domestic matters; he needed a break from thinking about Swan. The flat was reasonably clean, though it could use a thorough dusting, and he would need to air it out a bit. Laundry would have to be done in the immediate future; he’d been _planning_ on doing it after work on the day he’d ended up leaving for London, and now his hamper was topped off with the extremely ripe clothing from his trip.

It was unlikely that anyone from the office would be answering emails during the holiday weekend, but he _should_ at least let Spencer know he was back in the States, and that he would be back in the office on Monday. He could do some work, but if he planned to do that, he’d need to know what had been going on with his clients while he’d been away, and—

There was a soft knock at the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wonder who's there. Hahaha just kidding, anyway, I hope you enjoyed this chapter!


	14. Chapter Fourteen

Could it be Swan?

Killian didn’t know whether to be relieved or terrified when he opened the door to find her on his doormat; his stomach settled on a mix of both, which left him feeling queasy. Swan stood awkwardly before him, clutching a mug of coffee in one hand and keys in the other, and her sweats were a change from her attire last night (though … he couldn’t quite recall exactly what she _was_ wearing last night). Her expression was one he was familiar with, not just on her, but in general: he could feel her walls up, protecting her from whatever it was she feared he might do or say. Behind that expression, though, he could see fear, hope, and shame.

“Can we talk?” she asked quietly.

He bit his tongue, tempted to point out that _of course_ they could talk, as that had been what he had asked for minutes earlier. But this was no time for snark; he didn’t want to drive her away when she was giving him the chance he’d been desperate for. “Of course,” he replied simply, and he moved out of the way to welcome her into his flat.

She stepped in cautiously, looking around the flat with curiosity; he suddenly felt ashamed at how few personal touches he had. He was about to walk her to the couch, but when he glanced at all her letters scattered across his coffee table, he instead quickly gestured for her to sit at the table near the kitchen. She did so without protest, and her mug joined his on the table as he took his seat across from her.

For a few moments, they sat in silence. Should he speak first? She kept taking small sips of coffee in between glances in his direction, as though she were trying to read his mind. He wished he had that ability; he gripped his mug as though it were a lifeline.

She finally spoke. “Is everything you’ve said true? I mean, have you ever lied to me?”

The question took him by surprise. Why would she think he’d lied? “I have not lied to you,” he said softly and earnestly, hoping to dispel the ridiculous notion. “I’m Killian Jones. I’m an attorney in family law. I have a yacht called the _Jolly Roger._ I just got home last night from London.”

“Okay,” she said impatiently, possibly realizing that her question would lead them nowhere. “Why did you ask me out last month?”

A better question for her to ask, and a more painful one for him to answer. He vaguely recalled the biting comments she’d made last night, about it being a test of her affections or convictions, or a way for him to give a smug “I told you so.” How he answered this question was of the utmost importance, and for the life of him, he couldn’t seem to remember how to speak.

“I didn’t plan it,” he began, before realizing that lack of premeditation was no excuse; the flicker of annoyance in her eyes was enough of a reminder. He dropped his gaze. “I was still thinking about what you’d said about wanting to meet, and then of course, shortly after reading your letter, I had a real opportunity to talk to you. It was a spur of the moment decision. I thought maybe, if you said yes, I would tell you. But when you said no, and then you told me why—that is, later, in your letter—I was …” He sighed heavily. “When you said you thought of what we had as a relationship, I was … I was just so happy. I didn’t want to ruin it by telling you then. I mean, you were telling me that you’d chosen me over some other guy, and I didn’t know how you’d react … it was a mistake.” He tried to meet her gaze again. “I made a mistake.”

She looked a little less angry, but no less intense, and he once again shifted his gaze to his coffee. “I honestly suspected you might be upset, and think I was trying to test you. I thought about giving you my phone number, or my email or something so we could stay in touch while I was in England. But I didn’t want … _this_ to happen. And I wanted to be able to explain myself properly.”

“It’s hard to stay angry when you’re telling me all this stuff that’s totally understandable,” she murmured. His eyes shot up to look at her, perhaps a bit too eagerly, and she blushed as she took another sip of coffee. He did the same. “When did you get back?”

Had he so effectively changed the subject? Was she already satisfied with his explanation? “Last night, around nine o’clock. I have to ask: how did you know I’d be back last night?”

“I didn’t,” she admitted. “My friends have a pool going about who you really are. When they came over last night, they saw one of the other guys heading back to his apartment with a suitcase. They convinced me that you might be back already.”

“I see.” He didn’t _really_ understand what she’d meant, but that didn’t matter. They each drank more coffee, but she didn’t seem to have anything else to say. “So, what happens now?”

She shrugged. “Honestly? I don’t know. I’m still a little hurt over the whole dare thing. But I’m trying to put it in perspective.”

He nodded. “I understand that.”

“You’re not going to try to convince me that I’m irrationally upset about it, or that I misunderstood?” she asked warily.

He shrugged. “Why?”

“Well, do you think I’m overreacting?”

Had she actually believed her reaction was unwarranted? Or that he could possibly be blaming _her_ for being upset with regards to _his_ mistakes? This wouldn’t do.

“Not really. Especially combined with me asking you out last month, I’d imagine it would be hard to interpret differently.” He paused, but he needed to address something that had been bothering him. “I’m also quite angry with myself for not just being a proper adult and introducing myself in the first place. Jefferson only dared me because he knew I’d been interested in talking to you, and he called me a coward.”

“Maybe you should have just talked to me.” But she didn’t sound angry.

“Ironically, yes. I decided upon this fabulously circuitous method to talk to you because I was afraid that going the traditional route would be a disaster. Instead, you would have preferred the traditional route, and the circuitous method ended up hurting you immensely.” He was pleased at the opportunity to use the word “ironically” correctly.

They were quiet again for a few moments. She seemed to be dealing her concerns quite methodically; had they all been addressed? Perhaps he could bring up one of his. “May I ask you something?”

“Okay.”

“How long did you know it was me?” The mystery of the packing slip had to be solved.

“Last night.”

Only last night? “But you had this.” He stood and retrieved the wrinkled sheet of paper, which he lay on the table in front of her. “You must have known since Christmas.”

“No.” She shook her head. “I wanted to wait until you were ready, so I didn’t look. It wasn’t until I read your last letter and got upset that I decided to check. I wanted to confront you.”

Had she truly waited out of respect for his wishes and privacy? Then why had she kept it? Never mind—it was irrelevant. What mattered was the huge display of trust and respect, which he hadn’t reciprocated. He didn’t deserve her. “That was kind of you. That you wanted to wait, that is.”

“Yeah, well, I’m sorry for yelling at you. God, you must have been surprised.”

He chuckled in relief. They’d only communicated through text until now, but the way she spoke in person was nearly the same as the way she expressed herself in writing. Even taking into account how anxious he felt regarding their relationship’s future, he still felt so _at home_ just conversing with her. “I was. Although I had a lot of emotions when I opened that door to see you with tears streaming down your face. I initially mistook them for tears of joy, though that misconception was cleared up quickly.”

“Still, I’m really embarrassed. I wish I could say that it was really just that I was _that_ upset, but I was also _that_ drunk.”

“You did seem rather intoxicated.”

“I was. My friends were texting me this morning to ask who you were, and for a while, I couldn’t even _remember_ that I already knew. I even fell asleep with your last letter stuck in my sheets because I’d left it there and forgotten about it. I had to put in some serious effort flattening it out so I could read the rest of it today.”

What? “The rest of it? What do you mean, read the rest of it?” Had she … had she not _read_ the letter?

To her credit, she seemed to realize she’d said something a little more meaningful than she’d intended. “Well, I was so upset by the first paragraph—I mean, you really should take a look at the wording. You didn’t even include any sort of romantic opening. Even when I was reading it today, while sober, it just … it was really upsetting.”

“So you didn’t read practically _all_ of the letter.” Bloody hell, she’d only read the _first paragraph?_ Before he’d explained just how much he cared for her? She’d come running to his flat to tear him a new one without actually knowing just how he felt? All this pain and torture, and it was because she hadn’t bothered to read beyond the first couple of lines? Did she not trust him? Had his feelings been _so_ vague that she could ignore two months of communication because of a few lines?

“But I _did_ read it!” she exclaimed; her tone was desperate, not defensive. “I just … I was so drunk last night. I know, that’s a stupid excuse. I’m so sorry I didn’t read all of it then. But I _did_ read it. That’s why I’m here now.”

He sank back into his chair a little bit. She _had_ read it. It’s why she was here: she knew how he felt and wasn’t going to let their relationship end just yet. And getting angry at her for one single transgression was out of line, considering how much _he’d_ done her wrong already. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I don’t want to get defensive right now. I forget that, even if this has been a mutual arrangement, I have had an advantage. I’ve known who you were from the beginning. I was the one who could decide when we’d meet. I’m even the one who decided how we’d interact.”

“I should have read the whole thing,” she whispered sadly, staring at the table. “If I hadn’t been so stupid, I would have read it and seen that obviously, it wasn’t some elaborate joke.”

“It wasn’t,” he said insistently. “You’re not stupid, but no, it’s _not_ a joke. I meant every word. Please, love—please look at me.”

She did, and he felt that bright fire in his chest practically erupt. She looked so sad, but so hopeful, and he could see the lost little girl in foster care, the desperately devastated college student, and the apprehensive and aloof adult. All of those parts of her were staring at him, as though willing his words to be true. And they _were_ true.

Her lips very briefly curled into a smile before her face turned serious again. “There’s still one thing I don’t understand.”

“What’s that?”

“How could it be _you?”_

He flinched a bit. Was she truly hoping for someone else to be her Captain? But she shook her head. “No, no. I mean, I just assumed it wouldn’t be you because there was no _way_ someone as hot as you could be my secret admirer.”

Well, _that_ was more like it. “Who did you think I was? You said your friends had a bet going—did anyone win?”

“Yeah, one of my friends was convinced it would be you. Someone else thought you were Pretty Boy, someone else thought you were Sexy Single Dad.”

He snorted at the nicknames. “Sexy Single Dad? You mean Robin? Darling, he’s married.”

“Are you serious?” She _clearly_ hadn’t known.

“Absolutely. He and his wife are temporarily long distance, but he flies out to California every so often to see her.”

“That’s pretty long distance.”

“It is. Who did you think it was?” That was the most pressing question.

“You know Elderly Italian Guy?”

Uh-oh. “You thought I was Marco?”

“No, I thought it was his Moderately Attractive Son.” So, August. Well, he supposed it could have been worse, and as a writer, August did have a way with words. But since the man had never been able to introduce himself to her, it was unlikely that his profession had played a role in the placement of her bet. “But I only placed a small bet because with my luck, it would have been Snob With Sideburns.”

Snob with … ? “Swan, do you know _anyone’s_ names in this building?”

“No,” she admitted shamelessly. “How do _you?”_

“I introduce myself,” he pointed out. “That’s how I learned your name, after all.”

She turned red, clearly remembering the encounter. “That’s fair.”

“Which friend won?”

“My therapist friend. Tink.”

What? “Tink? You don’t need to use weird nicknames when referring to people whose names you’re familiar with.”

“Oh, so you don’t want me calling you Captain?” He smirked in reply, but the thought of her letters, and how she had to keep herself from moaning that nickname, sprang to mind immediately. He blushed; he could _not_ sport an erection during this conversation. Bad form.

Swan clearly didn’t notice his embarrassment. “She goes by Tinker Bell. For real.” She grimaced a bit as she sipped her coffee.

“Refill?” It couldn’t possibly be drinkable anymore, and he could use the excuse to go into the kitchen and calm his libido. She nodded, and he took both mugs into the kitchen. “Sugar? Milk?”

“Sugar, please.” He was wasting coffee pretty effectively today, but then again, today was a rather unusual day. He began to brew a double batch and tried very hard not to constantly steal glances towards her. On the one hand, he was relieved that they seemed to be sliding into easy conversation; even if the previous night hadn’t occurred, he’d anticipated a little more awkwardness as they finally began a face-to-face relationship. But on the other hand, his anxiety hadn’t abated; it almost seemed too good to be true, after the conflict they’d run into. When the coffee was finally ready, he distributed it evening, adding what he hoped was the right amount of sugar into her mug, and probably too much half-and-half into his.

“What happened?” she asked as he returned to the table. “Thanks.”

“What happened when?”

“I mean, this past week and a half.”

He sat back in his chair and let out a long sigh. He was not in the mood to deal with two difficult personal issues in one day, but he didn’t want to be evasive either. And his absence _was_ what had prompted this shift in their relationship; it would be bad form to refuse to address it. “He passed shortly after I arrived. He wasn’t really coherent by the time I got there. Thought I was Liam and said some things to me—nothing really intelligible.” He hadn’t dwelt much on the strange garbled half-conversation he’d had with his father; whatever the man had been trying to say didn’t really matter anyway. “I sorted out the rest of his affairs and got on the first plane back to the States that I could get a ticket for. I didn’t stay for the funeral.”

“Are you okay?”

“I will be,” he reassured her. “I wish I could say that I was glad that I couldn’t confront him, but I think I’ll always be disappointed. But it wasn’t as horrible as I thought it would be.”

“Why’s that?”

“I spent hours obsessing over what I might say if he tried to apologize to me, or if he seemed uncaring about what he’d put me, or my whole family through. Would I shout at him? Forgive him? Would I pretend to forgive while gritting my teeth angrily? But in the rare moments he was conscious, he wasn’t even lucid. I never had to make that decision. It was somewhat of a relief.”

“I understand that. Which I guess you know already,” she replied. He nodded; she was clearly referring to her letter about her miscarriage. “I’m still sorry that it happened.” She reached over and took his hand.

He stiffened involuntarily at her touch. For one, it was the first real physical interaction between them, since their handshake in the laundry room occurred when she hadn’t known who she was. But she’d taken his left hand, and he could see her glancing at the scars.

She seemed to understand the significance of her actions. She quickly met his gaze as she released his hand; she did it slowly enough that the tension her action had created didn’t dissipate. “So, uh, sorry about the necklace,” she said awkwardly.

He wasn’t sure what had reminded her, but he appreciated the apology. “You were upset, love. It’s all right.”

“Do you still have it?”

He couldn’t help but laugh. Why would he have disposed of such a precious object? “Aye, I still have it. Shall I fetch it for you?”

She blushed. “I do miss wearing it.

“I’ll get it.” He smiled, hopefully reassuring her, before heading to the bedroom to fetch it. When he returned, she was standing in the middle of the living room with a slightly embarrassed expression on her face, as though he’d caught her in some sort of compromising position. “Shall I?” he asked, holding up the pendant.

She nodded, perhaps a little nervously, before turning around. The clasp looked similar to the one on his necklace, and so he was grateful that he recalled how she’d been able to pull it off without undoing the clasp the night before. It would take him much too long to work the tiny jewelry finding, and it would dispel the strange tension in the air if he did. Not all tension, he reminded himself, was bad tension.

He slowly draped the chain over her head and gently worked it down until it was properly settled. Hoping he wasn’t being too forward, he carefully lifted her hair up so it wouldn’t rest underneath the chain; she shivered as he did so. Certainly not bad tension.

She turned around. “Thank you.”

“My pleasure, Swan.”

She rolled her eyes just the tiniest bit. “Emma.”

“Are you sure? You seem fond of nicknames. Perhaps I should call you Princess.”

She laughed. “You want me to call you Captain?”

This was no time for his cock to come back to life, but they were standing close enough together that she’d have to deliberately look down to notice. Bloody hell, if this worked out, and he could take her to bed, nicknames were _certainly_ going to be a part of lovemaking.

“I wouldn’t stop you. Although—well, what was my nickname? I mean, my nickname because you didn’t know my real name,” he clarified. “Or was I not fortunate enough to be granted a moniker?”

She turned red. “You were Hot Guy,” she said sheepishly.

“Well, that’s not terribly creative.” Accurate perhaps, but even so.

She crossed her arms. “Creative like Princess? Or Captain? Or Sexy Single Dad?”

“Fair enough. So …” He stroked his chin in an exaggerated manner. “Would I prefer to be called Captain or Hot Guy?”

“How about Killian?” She was smirking.

His name on her lips, though, was more powerful than he could have imagined. He suddenly realized that this was a first; when he’d introduced himself, he’d given her his name, but she hadn’t repeated it. Hearing her say it made the fire in his chest burn brighter, as though his heart were responding to its owner’s call.

“What?” she asked when he didn’t reply.

“It’s just that I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about us finally meeting, and having you know my name,” he admitted. “It means quite a lot to hear you say it.”

“Killian,” she said again, her tone very deliberate. She wasn’t challenging him: he’d told her how much it had meant to hear her say his name, and she was giving that to him again.

“Emma,” he said, returning the favor, and pushing a lock of hair from her face.

Much to his surprise, she stepped forward and kissed him. His mind went blank immediately, and once his senses returned, all he could think of was that _she was kissing him._

His love was kissing him.

It was over all too soon. He _had_ to have more—it wasn’t optional. “Emma,” he whispered before diving back in. Within moments, their arms were wrapped around each other, she was sucking gently on his lower lip, and bloody hell, all he could think about was throwing her over his shoulder and carrying her off to the bedroom.

While he was reluctant to end such a perfect moment, he knew that if this were truly happening, he and Swan—Emma—had only just begun. He regretfully pulled back after giving her one last, hard kiss. His arms clearly hadn’t gotten the memo; they remained wrapped around her, and it took every ounce of self-control to avoid letting his left hand slip down to cup her gorgeous ass.

“That was …” but he couldn’t think clearly enough to finish his sentence.

“Overdue,” she supplied.

It was a fair jab. “I’m sorry to have kept you waiting so long.”

“No,” she said. “No, you were right.”

“Is that so?” About what?

“If we’d met normally, and gone on dates, we would have kissed, just like now, and it would have been great.” Her tone indicated that he should finish her thought.

“But not like _this.”_

“But not like this,” she agreed. She pressed herself up against him, and bloody hell, if she hadn’t felt his erection before, she must have been able to now. “If just kissing could feel like _this …”_

What? Not even an hour ago, she’d been so angry with him, unwilling to speak to him because of seemingly unforgivable transgressions. And now she wanted him to bed her? He needed to know if the storm had truly ended. “Love, are you sure?”

“Are you sure that you love me?”

He responded in the only way he could: pulling her back to him and kissing her deeply. And just in case his answer hadn’t been crystal clear from his actions, he replied verbally. “Yes.”

“Then yes.”

Well, it would be bad form to keep a lady waiting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lena, it wasn't the milkman!
> 
> I hope you all enjoyed this chapter! Let me know what you think!


	15. Chapter Fifteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content note: This chapter contains explicit sexual content.

One thing was for sure: falling deeply in love with someone before sleeping with them resulted in the most meaningful, mind-blowing sex Killian Jones had had in his entire life.

He still couldn’t believe his good fortune. Earlier this morning, he’d simply been hopeful that Swan would agree to talk things out with him. Not only had she done so, but she’d forgiven him _and_ permitted him to make love to her. And now she was staring at him with a goofy, satisfied grin on her face, one he was sure mirrored his own. He was about to reach out and touch her—just to enjoy the exquisite feeling of her skin beneath his fingertips—when his phone, still in the living room, began to ring.

“Shit, I left my phone in the other room.” He quickly scrambled out of bed and into the living room, glad for the blinds on the windows, and saw who was calling: Jefferson. “What do you want, mate?” He hadn’t meant to sound impatient, but he didn’t want to talk to anyone at the moment: he wanted to go make love to Swan again.

“Happy New Year,” Jefferson said, clearly unperturbed by Killian’s attitude. “How’re you holding up?”

On second thought, he wondered as he saw the time, perhaps he and Swan might shower. He went to the linen closet and began rummaging for clean towels. “I just got in last night, so I’m quite jetlagged, as any reasonable person might expect, you bloody idiot.”

“I just wanted to see how you were. Belle told us about your dad.”

“I’d honestly rather not talk about it.” He went back into the bedroom and handed Swan a towel, before gesturing at the bathroom door. She gave him a confused look.

“Well, what about your neighbor? Last we spoke, you said you were going to meet her after you came home.”

It was true; he’d had the chance to speak to Jeff and Graham, not just Belle, when he was in London, but it had been more of a throwaway comment to his two male friends, and not really something he wanted to discuss at length. “That’s quite honestly none of your business.”

“Come on, Killian. I’m sort of responsible for all this anyway—I just want to know what happened.”

The reminder that the dare that had nearly ended his relationship with Swan had been Jefferson’s idea in the first place struck a nerve, and a wicked idea formed in his mind. “Oh, so you want to know what happened, mate? You want to know? She rejected me.” He winked at Swan, who seemed to figure out what was going on. “And it’s all your damn fault. She was so angry that you’d dared me.”

“You _told_ her that?”

“Of _course_ I told her; I thought she’d find it funny. But it’s still your fault, you wanker. So, thanks for calling to ask about something that I’d rather forget about.”

“Killian, I’m—I mean, I’m sorry, I wish you hadn’t told her. But I know you weren’t happy about the dare in the first place—look, I promise, I’ll never give you shit about your love life again.”

“Daddy!” He heard Grace on the other line; clearly, she’d heard her father swear.

“Sorry, sweetie. But Killian, I really am sorry—”

“Sorry’s not going to cut it, Jeff. You knew how I felt about her, and now it’s ruined. Look, I desperately need a shower, so I’m going to go, but yeah, _happy New Year_ to you, too.” And he hung up.

He’d probably call him back tonight, after letting him stew a little.

“I take it that was your friend J? Or Jefferson, I guess?” Swan asked.

“Aye. He wanted to know if I’d finally unmasked myself.”

“So you lied?” She didn’t sound as amused as he’d hoped she’d be.

“I didn’t _really_ lie,” he pointed out. “You _did_ reject me. I just failed to mention that the rejection was temporary.” He realized that this show of dishonesty, even if it was for a worthy cause, might concern her given last night’s events. “Uh, it _was_ temporary, right? Love, I swear, I don’t make a habit of lying. I’m just trying to get back at him.”

“You’re a lawyer and you don’t make a habit of lying?” But her tone was playful again.

“Oi, we’re not all evil. I don’t lie in my personal life.” Time to change the subject. “Anyway, I really do desperately need a shower. You’re more than welcome to join me.” He walked over and opened the door to the bathroom.

“Ugh, you have an en suite bathroom?” she groaned. “We’re never going to hang out at my place, are we?”

What did that have to do with anything? “Love, I’ll hang out wherever you’d like to. Besides, it’s not like it matters much. The commute between our places is quite short. Now, as I said, I’m going to be showering now. Would you care to join me? I don’t mean to be rude, but you do look _awfully_ dirty to me.”

She practically jumped off the bed and was first into the shower. He stepped in after her, once he’d hung their towels up, and turned on the water. “My, you _are_ dirty,” he joked.

“Guess you’d better wash me.”

“I’d be a damn fool to pass up such an opportunity.” Before he could think of a good innuendo, her mouth was on his, and instinctively, he pushed her up against the tiled surround and pressed his body into hers. She gasped in surprise, as the tile hadn’t warmed up yet. “Sorry, love.”

“It’s okay,” she said before tilting her head back so he could kiss along her neck. He did so eagerly, teeth grazing her delicate skin. He could taste the sweat from their earlier activities, and it was like an aphrodisiac; he wasn’t quite entirely hard yet, not so soon after climaxing, but now he was at least well on his way to another erection. “So I don’t know about you, but I really _could_ use a shower for real,” she added.

He tried not to feel too disappointed, given that they’d _just_ had an immeasurably satisfying fuck. And while he had showered the evening before, lack of restful sleep _and_ said intimate activities left him more than eager to wash up. “Very well,” he said, making sure to sound agreeable.

He pointed out the various shower products he had and made a mental note to pick up some of her preferred brands in the near future. True, she might live just down the hall, but why not give her the option to shower at either location?

After they took turns shampooing and conditioning, Swan grabbed the body wash. They switched places so that she could soap up while he rinsed what was left of the conditioner out of his hair. But as he did so, eyes closed to prevent water from washing out his contacts, he felt her slick hands rub all over his chest.

He wiped the water off his face and opened his eyes to find her grinning at him; her hands were still pressed against him, covered in suds. “What are you doing?”

“Really?” she asked skeptically. “You don’t want me to _wash_ you?” She was grinning widely.

“You’re quite insatiable.”

“That’s not a complaint, is it?” A flash of insecurity crossed her face.

“Oh, not at all,” he replied roughly. “Though I hope you’ll forgive me.” He gestured towards his groin; his cock had softened since they’d ended their makeout session. “It might take me a little more time to rise to the occasion, so to speak. How did you put it? Nothing like an explosive orgasm to really take it out of you?”

She laughed, surprised and delighted. “You remember that I said that?”

“Of course.” He reached up to run his fingers through her hair, an act made quite difficult thanks to the water in her heavy locks. “Now, perhaps, in the meantime, it would also be acceptable if _I_ washed _you?_ Or,” he said, smirking, “do you need a little more recovery time as well?”

Within minutes, once he was rinsed clean of body wash, he ran his own soapy hands all along her gorgeous body. His fingers traced the path he’d made earlier that morning with his mouth, starting with her neck and shoulders, before gently circling her breasts and nipples, which struggled to harden, given the warm water. Regardless, his actions had the intended effect, and his cock grew hard as he took in the sight of her surrendering to the sensations. He’d never been with a woman who’d enjoyed having her breasts played with _nearly_ this much, but he damn well was enjoying it.

By the time he’d made his way down to her stomach, she was trembling considerably with arousal. He tentatively slipped his fingers, once he’d rinsed them of soap, along her lips, and she gasped.

“No good?”

“No, I’m just still really sensitive,” she explained. “You know, from two orgasms and what could appropriately be referred to as a pounding.”

“Should I stop?” He was reluctant to leave her hot and bothered with no climax, but if it was painful or uncomfortable, he didn’t wish to add to it.

“Maybe.” But she sounded thoughtful. “Or, maybe you could touch my breasts some more?”

He was only happy to comply, though he was unsure that he could get her off in that fashion. Though she’d said it was something her body was capable of, he’d been embarrassed to admit he hadn’t even known it was possible, and he had no idea how to make it happen for her.

But as he caressed her breasts again, deliberately being a little rough with her nipples (with permission), he saw her reach her own hand down between her legs. “I can be gentle enough,” she explained between gasps of pleasure. “Though _oh my god_ , do _not_ stop doing that.” Within moments, she was falling apart in his arms.

“Well, guess that woke _you_ up,” she said, referring to his erection pressing into her ass.

“Your climaxes are easily the most erotic events I’ve ever had the pleasure of observing,” he explained.

She frowned. “Even if I _knew_ how to have shower sex, I don’t think I can handle another go around till later tonight.”

He shook his head. “Love, you don’t have to worry about that, so long as you don’t mind me taking care of myself.”

She pressed herself up against him; not all of the body wash had rinsed off her skin, and it transferred to him in the process. “As long as _you_ don’t mind a little assistance.”

Naturally, he didn’t, and with her lips on his neck and her hands cupping his balls, he came in record time.

They managed to finish showering not long after that, and soon, they were sitting on his couch, dressed again in their pajamas, with Swan’s hair wrapped in a towel. He sheepishly collected her letters, which were still scattered about the coffee table.

“What do you do with yours?” she asked as he did so. She blushed as soon as she asked. “I mean, if you throw them away, that’s okay.”

“Of course not!” he said quickly. He felt his own face grow a little hot. “Er, I … I have a binder.”

She chuckled. “A binder?”

“A man has to keep his home organized.” But it was still a tad embarrassing.

“Can I see?”

He nodded automatically, though privately he wished she hadn’t asked. He pulled the large binder from the bookshelf where he kept it, and, still slightly mortified, showed her how he’d put each letter into a sheet protector. “I didn’t want to three hole punch them,” he explained, pointing at one of the letters as he did so. She always wrote from one end of the page to the other; had he made holes in the letters, he would have had to cut off some of the words. And that was unacceptable as far as he was concerned.

“May I?” He handed her the binder, and she gently took the letters from where he’d set them back down on the table, in a messy stack. He watched in silence as she carefully put each letter into a protector; she did so with a small smile on her face, but the smile was neither judgmental nor condescending.

Once she finished, she flipped back to the very first letter, and laid her hand atop it for a moment before shutting the binder. “The top drawer of my dresser barely closes because of all the letters. I saved everything. Down to the envelopes.”

He moved so quickly that he wasn’t even aware that he’d taken her in his arms until he’d done so. “My darling, I am glad to hear that my letters mean as much to you as yours do to me.”

“They always have,” she replied softly, her voice muffled by his shirt and her towel. “Even at the beginning, when I was still with Walsh, I was intrigued. It didn’t occur to me to stop writing to you, or to get rid of any of the letters.”

“That’s right,” he remembered. “I stole you from your boyfriend.”

“You did not!” she protested, shifting in his arms so she could give him a hard, indignant glare.

“But didn’t I have a hand in it?”

She rolled her eyes. “I can’t really be any clearer that the relationship was pretty much _over_ , Killian.”

“Tell me he at least fought for you.” It wasn’t as though the man deserved to be with Swan if he treated her the way he did, and made her so unhappy, but Killian was still offended at the very notion that someone might _not_ know what they’d lost if Swan rejected them.

“Would it be considered ‘fighting for me’ to spend three hours on the phone lecturing me about why I couldn’t break up with him, leaving me voicemails constantly after I told him not to contact me, and then sending me a Christmas gift almost two months later?”

“No.” He shook his head. “That’s just bloody annoying.”

She laughed, but her expression became serious. “No, fighting for me—for us—is what you did,” she said. “He wanted me to agree to be unhappy. You wanted to fix what had broken.”

“I know what I did hurt you,” he said, a hardness in his throat.

“Mistakes are okay,” she reminded him. “I’m going to make them, too—I mean, I really already did, when I didn’t finish your letter last night. But at the end of the day, this is what I want. You didn’t give up, and you didn’t let me give up.”

“I love you,” he reminded her.

He saw her swallow, and her eyes grew a little shiny. “I know,” she said gently. “And you know how much I care about you.”

Her reply was a little disappointing, though not entirely unexpected; she’d already had more than one chance to reciprocate, and she clearly wasn’t ready. Besides, he wasn’t reminding her of his own feelings just to obligate her to do the same—he wanted to ensure she knew how loved she was, and how precious she was to him. But he did privately acknowledge that he was hoping she would say it back.

But he did believe her—that she cared about him very much—and the depth of her feelings was something he could feel. He would give her time; he resolved to remove as much pressure as he could, and wait until she was comfortable voicing her own love before he would repeat the words. After all, she’d been patient with him, waiting to meet in the first place; he would be patient in return.

The rest of the long weekend passed in a pleasurable blur. They spent their time relaxing and discussing everything under the sun, including some of the more serious topics they’d shared with each other during their separation. They enjoyed each others bodies several more times, to the point where he had to change his sheets far earlier than he’d ever had to before; to his surprise, she insisted on helping him do laundry, on the grounds that the dirty sheets were her fault. And of course, Sunday morning, he took her to _Stephanie’s_ for brunch; the food had never tasted better than it did in her company.

As they made their way back to the complex after their meal, Swan’s phone rang. “Hello?” She winced. “Sorry, I totally forgot. It’s a long story, okay?” She paused, listening to whoever was on the other end. “I know you were worried—I really _did_ forget. I don’t want to talk about it over the phone, okay?” She threw him an anxious look. “Can you wait a sec? I think I’m getting another call.” She covered the microphone with her palm, as tightly as possible. “Do you want to meet my friends tonight?” She was whispering so quietly that he could barely hear her over the sound of traffic on Comm Ave.

He nodded in lieu of a spoken reply, since she clearly didn’t want the other person to know he was there. She nodded back and brought the phone back up. “Sorry, it was just a text from Mom.” He couldn’t resist smirking; for all that she’d judged him for lying to Jefferson on New Year’s Day, she clearly had no compunctions about lying to her own sister (he assumed, based on the lie). “I’m not in the mood to round everyone up, so can you do it? Tavern on the Square, five o’clock? Okay, see you guys then.”

“Keeping secrets?” he asked once she’d hung up.

She smiled at him. “I’ve got a plan.”

That evening, he waited nervously outside the bar; he’d promised to give Swan a few minutes to mislead her friends before they revealed the true end result. He hadn’t planned to wait as long as he had, but Will had shown up unexpectedly, and on his own way into the bar had asked Killian about “that bloody gorgeous lady you were with in the elevator—come on, Jones, don’t make me beg for her number.”

But his entrance had still been perfectly timed, and he’d very much enjoyed the looks of shock on her friends’ faces as they realized they’d been had. The rest of the evening had gone quite well, and to his surprise, he found himself in such an engaging conversation with Swan’s brother-in-law that the two sisters had great difficulty convincing either of them that the night was over, and it was time to leave.

He thought, as he and Swan made their way back to the complex, that he would have to arrange for her to meet his friends soon. He’d already called them to let them know what had happened (specifically, that he and Swan had reunited, in person; Belle’s gentle admonishment had led him to call Jefferson and admit the truth), and they’d all expressed interest in finally meeting the woman who’d won his heart. But he felt as though they’d had enough to deal with for the weekend; he would ask her later in the week.

“I’m not ready for this to be over,” she said as they got off the elevator on their floor.

“What makes you think this is over?” What an odd thing for her to think!

“I meant the weekend.” Ah. “I’m going to have to go to bed, and then wake up and go to work.”

“Well, it’s not _that_ late,” he pointed out as they arrived at her door. “If you’d like, I can keep you company until we ought to call it an evening.”

“True.” She pushed open her door and he followed her inside. He’d never been inside her flat before; she’d stopped by to change a few times over the weekend, but otherwise they’d stayed at his place.

It was small, given that it was a studio, but it felt quite homey. She had just the right amount of furniture to keep the space from feeling too crowded or too empty, and he particularly liked the mismatched bar stools.

“Sorry, I know it’s nothing like your place,” she said quickly as she noticed him looking around.

Why was she apologizing? “You mean it has character.”

“That’s one way to compliment someone for having mismatched furniture.”

“I’m serious, darling. Nothing I own has a story behind it. Nothing really has any meaning to me. That apartment is just a place to live. It’s not a home, love.”

“And this is?” Was she really so insecure? Perhaps they should have spent more time here over the weekend, if his flat was making her feel so terribly inadequate.

He pointed to her dresser; it was obviously solid wood and well-crafted, and also very clearly well-loved. “Tell me about this dresser,” he said. “Where is it from?”

“I don’t know. My parents bought it for me.”

“Recently?”

“No, almost fifteen years ago, when they first adopted me.”

“Fifteen years later, you still have this dresser,” he said emphatically. “This dresser which has some scratches on it, and several stains. Is it because you can’t afford a new one?”

“No,” she replied, a little irritated. “It’s because that’s the first piece of furniture I _ever_ owned—something that was actually _mine_ and not a hand-me-down or something I had to share with anyone—and I’m going to own it till the day I die.”

“Exactly. That’s exactly what I’m talking about. This isn’t just a piece of furniture. It’s a memory. It’s part of your history.” He gently laid his hand on the surface of the wood; it felt comforting, as though charmed. “I don’t have that sort of history.”

“What about the _Jolly?”_ she asked. She pulled off her shoes before stepping over to him, caressing his arm. “I mean, if someone came to you tomorrow and offered to buy you a brand new boat to replace her, would you take it?”

“No.” His stomach tightened unhappily at the thought. “I’m not sure I can keep the _Jolly_ forever, but I would never consider replacing her if I didn’t have to.”

“See?” she said. “You do have something. And besides, I _do_ like your apartment. Everything matches.”

“If you like everything to match, but you’re keeping this dresser forever, does that mean you’ll never be satisfied?” he asked, grinning.

“Well, in thirty years, if I’m ever done paying off my student loan debt—you know, assuming I’m that lucky—I’ll either hunt down a bedroom set that matches, or I’ll just have to bite the bullet and have something custom made.”

“I find that to be a very sensible plan.”

“Well, my furniture-shop-owning ex-boyfriend didn’t think so,” she said unhappily.

“Which furniture shop _is_ this?” he asked. “I’d prefer not to ever step foot in there; it would be bad form to help bolster the sales of the man who treated you so poorly.”

“Wizard of Oak. It’s up near Beacon Hill, near the Common.” Oh, bloody _hell_. “What? Is it the cheesy name? It is, isn’t it? I told him he should change the name.”

“No, it’s that I _did_ go there,” he said. “I just bought my dining table a few months ago, and that was one of the places I browsed while shopping.”

“And?”

“Well, not only was none of the furniture to my taste, but the man I spoke with was quite infuriating. He kept insisting that mid-century modern was perfect for me, and that it would be a shame for me to waste my money on something as generic as Pottery Barn. And when I joked that I actually liked the style of some IKEA furniture, he just looked at me as though I were completely mad. And he even suggested anyone who was foolish enough to waste their money on something from IKEA—”

“—deserved the dirty looks they’d get from guests,” she finished for him. “Yeah, you talked to my ex-boyfriend, Walsh.”

“Quite a gentleman,” he replied sarcastically. “You’ll be pleased to hear that I told him that I didn’t appreciate his rudeness and that I would be spending my money elsewhere. And _I’m_ pleased to hear that I stole his girlfriend.”

“Once again, you did _not_ steal me,” she said, lightly whacking him on the shoulder. “That relationship was pretty much over when you left the first letter.”

He simply grinned and led her over to her bed; did she really think he was ever going to stop teasing her about this? “Well, sometimes it makes me feel quite grand to believe otherwise.”

She stretched and sat down. “So, what do you want to do?” He raised an eyebrow and she blushed. “Besides that. To be honest, I don’t think I could take another round. I could barely walk to the bar and back tonight.”

“Shall we see what’s on television?” he asked, laying down and patting the spot beside him; she lay down beside him. “Perhaps I should get one for my bedroom. It’s nice watching in bed.” She smiled as though he’d said something particularly wonderful, but didn’t bother to explain. Instead, she grabbed the remote and began channel surfing.

He was awakened about an hour later by Swan asking if he wanted to go to bed.

“I suppose we have to go to bed sometime,” he said sadly. He supposed he wasn’t ready for the weekend to end either.

“I don’t want you to go.”

“And I don’t want to go.”

“Maybe … maybe you could stay the night.” She sounded worried as she made the suggestion. Why?

“I’d love to stay the night, darling,” he murmured. “I’ll be back in a moment; I need to take out my lenses.” He rose and fished his keys out of his pocket as he walked to the door. “Mind if I prop the door while I’m gone?”

“Nope.” He quickly made his way back to his flat and got ready for bed as quickly as possible. It was a little strange to finish his nighttime routine and then lock his apartment door behind him. But he didn’t want to spend a single night in separate beds, not when he knew just how wonderful it was to fall asleep with Swan beside him.

They undressed for bed; they’d grown accustomed to sleeping almost naked beside each other, and although he doubted they’d have time for a morning go-around, it would still be lovely to feel her skin against his as he fell asleep and woke up. But she seemed incredibly preoccupied as she slid into bed with him.

“All right, love?” he asked as she curled up against him. “I can practically hear you thinking.”

“Why did you come back?” she asked. “I mean, to my place. You had to go home to get ready for bed. So why come back, if you had to go home anyway?”

“It’s not really _home,”_ he corrected her. “It’s just my apartment. You’re not there right now—you’re _here._ So why wouldn’t I want to be here?”

She looked confused and then stunned, as though he’d said something that had bothered her, and she’d only just realized why. “What?” he asked. “Have I upset you? Do you want me to go back to my place?”

“I love you,” she said. His heart began to pound erratically, and the warmth in his chest spread to every inch of his body. “I don’t know how it happened, but I love you.”

His arms wrapped around her. “And I love you.” He kissed the side of her head, grateful to hear the words from her, and to be able to say them again himself. “I’m relieved to hear you say it. I hadn’t wanted you to feel pressured.” She loved him. _She loved him._

“I loved you before I met you,” she said. “Same as you. I just needed to meet you to realize it.”

“More than understandable, love.” He pulled back so he could smile at her. “Do you see me complaining?”

“No.” She slowly returned his grin.

“Shall we sleep?”

“Yeah.” She leaned in for a quick goodnight kiss, but the kisses slowly became passionate. She sighed. “We really should sleep.”

“Mmm.” They really should. And they eventually did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This just about wraps it up! All that's left is the epilogue (to be posted Monday). Please let me know what you think!


	16. Epilogue

“I can’t believe how warm this fall has been,” Swan said happily as she pulled off her T-shirt. Her bikini top wasn’t _terribly_ scandalous, but it was skimpy enough that Killian immediately understood why she’d waited till they had the _Jolly_ out on the water before she’d taken off her shirt.

“Darling, please tell me you’ve already put on sunscreen,” he said, eyes narrowing in suspicion. She hadn’t asked him for help applying any before they’d left the flat, so unless she’d become incredibly flexible, at the very least, her back must be unprotected.

“I thought maybe you could help me,” she said, flashing him a wicked smile as she pulled the bottle out from her tote bag.

“Bloody hell, love, we can’t have sex on the deck of my ship.” It was a fantasy they both shared, one that came up frequently in dirty talk, but one that he knew had to _stay_ fantasy. Albert Spencer wouldn’t waste any time firing him if he were caught having sex in public. His success with the Tillman case had made him practically a celebrity in family law, but now that his record was sterling, he was reluctant to taint it.

“I just asked for a little help,” she said innocently. “I didn’t ask for you to fuck me.”

“Oh? And what do you think will happen if I start to rub sunscreen on you?” he asked. “And we _both_ know how easily you get worked up when you put any on your own chest.” He hadn’t forgotten the pool party they’d attended at Graham’s house to celebrate Merida’s birthday. Everyone else had been outside already, and he’d gone into the bathroom to help Swan apply sunblock, thinking it would take a few short minutes. Instead, she’d gotten so aroused from the combination of his hands on her back and her own hands on her chest that he’d actually fucked her right then and there.

It had been extremely erotic, but also quite embarrassing, having to pretend that he’d not just had sex in his friend’s bathroom during what was supposed to be a family-friendly gathering. They hadn’t told anyone, but Will bloody Scarlet, who was of _course_ everywhere now that the man was Belle’s boyfriend, had figured it out and begun making jokes about it, and not everyone at the party had found it nearly as amusing as he had.

Swan blushed, obviously recalling the same incident. “I actually did most of it already,” she admitted. “I just need more on my back. I promise, I’ll be thinking of baseball the whole time.”

“Very well.” He managed to put sunscreen on her back without incident.

“Thank you.” She stretched languidly. “I know global warming is bad and everything, but I’m glad it’s stayed warm. It’ll suck when it gets cold.”

“Hm?”

“I like coming out here. You know, on the water.”

“Ah. Well, maybe we’ll try to brave the weather.” She didn’t comment, but she smiled brightly. It was no secret that she loved the _Jolly Roger_ , nor was it that he was finally able to forget the painful memories he had of the winter he’d spent aboard. The thought of sleeping below deck in the winter was one that didn’t seem so terrible anymore, not when the scenario he was imagining also involved Emma Swan pressed up against him.

They relaxed quietly in each other’s arms as they enjoyed the gorgeous autumn day; while they could still easily talk for hours, sometimes late into the night, Killian also loved that they could often enjoy each other’s company without any words. It was a bit surreal; he’d never had this sort of experience before. Granted, before Milah, he’d barely had a relationship last longer than a month or two, and with Milah, every moment spent together had felt like stolen time. To get to this point in a relationship, where he felt almost as though they were sometimes one person, was new to him. He loved it.

After a long while, Emma spoke. “My parents want to come down to see me for my birthday in a couple weeks.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. They’re just coming down for one night, not the whole weekend like last time.”

“Still, that sounds lovely. Ask them for their dining preferences, and I’ll make a reservation. For earlier this time.” She chuckled; they both remembered the glares they’d gotten from waitstaff when they’d taken her parents out to dinner six months ago. He’d find a different restaurant this time, but just in case, he’d aim for a five o’clock reservation instead of a seven-thirty one.

“Do you think they’ll be upset that we moved in together?”

“Probably not. And besides, your mother doesn’t seem the type to make a scene.” He knew Emma was worried, not wanting to lose her parents’ love and approval, but the Blanchards had been enthusiastic about him from the very start. And while he hadn’t mentioned it to Swan, her mother had made some hints on Independence Day, during their last visit, that perhaps it was a bit of a waste for them to live in the same building and pay two different rent checks every month.

“They also asked about Thanksgiving,” she added.

He stiffened; _that_ was something he’d actually been anxious about. He’d been afraid to bring up the holiday, especially given how her ex-boyfriend’s assumptions about Thanksgiving had been the straw that broke the camel’s back (though of _course_ the man had been on thin ice anyway, given that his girlfriend had begun to fall in love with a devilishly handsome, dashing rapscallion, even if she couldn’t admit it).

The the thought of separating for Thanksgiving was unbearable; he hadn’t forgotten how unpleasant it had been last year. But asking to attend her family’s get-together felt so presumptuous as to be outright rude.

“I—do you want to come with me?” she asked, interrupting his thoughts.

“Could I?”

“Well, yeah, that’s _why_ they were asking. They wanted to know if it would be just me, or both of us.”

He was about to ask if their invitation seemed sincere, before deciding that, at the very least, Regina Blanchard would never offer an invitation unless she was prepared for someone to accept it. And besides, someone else’s opinion was much more important to him: “Would _you_ like me to come with you?”

“Yes,” she said, with no hesitation.

“Then I will absolutely come,” he said firmly, and she smiled.

“First family holiday,” she said. “Big deal.”

Yes. _Family_ holiday. It was a big deal.

The idea kept ringing in his head, as they ate the sandwiches they’d packed for lunch, as they sailed back to the marina, as they drove back home to the flat they shared. Family holiday.

She felt like his family. She had for a long time.

That night, they made plans to have brunch the next morning, and then they made love. And after she’d fallen asleep in his arms, he made up his mind.

The first thing he did on Monday during his lunch break was look up local jewelers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this is it! This is where we leave this version of Emma and Killian. I really hope you enjoyed the story.
> 
> Many people have been leaving lovely and supportive comments throughout the month that I've been posting this story. If you have been, thank you SO much. If you haven't, I hope that you'll feel up to leaving a comment before you go.


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